Evolution in the course of a lifetime
might be interpreted
not as consciousness expanding
but of encumbrances shed
yet so few and paltry
that little more light shines through
at the end than in the beginning,
always threatened by smudges of vice,
the impedimenta of desire
to overwhelm the journey’s
natural divestiture and unveiling.
Aeons it seems, requires the process,
the gathering up, the breaking off,
littering the landscape, a-tisket, a-tasket,
the mortal, humble basket,
until each entombed core of light
triumphs over the encrusted alias
of Who, by faith, we really are.
O child of God, hide not your lamp
beneath the bushel but let it shine.