To practice this effacement, I'm told
is to return to the garden; to wisdom
from the calculated infrastructure
of discriminating consciousness;
a return to purity but for the knot
of my sullied appearance.
Without solid footing or a roof over my head
how long before I am worn down by the elements,
Godspeed, to my original surface?
To disappear on the first fragrant breeze,
my parents apparently
doing me a grave disservice
carving from the great Oneness
another sorrowful niche, giving me a name
on which to hang the onus
of every opinion and desire,
leaving me only this tentative paradisiacal foothold
until grace, perseverance and resolve return me
completely to the evanescent purity I barely
remember yet have never entirely left behind.
O child of God, you talk too much,
disturbing the garden's tranquility.