I am humbled.
My sins that I have confessed
are large.
But after I told you what I did,
I stopped.
It was kinda easy too
because ten commandments remind me
and when the seeds sprout
I can just refuse the water.
Or so I thought,
but the saints, they now enlighten me
how blurred the image I have seen
of my own sin and wanderings.
I have a hoard of iniquities
shiny and sheltered
resting in my treasure trove-like mind
(or is it heart?)
And though I pray for
deepest cleansing-
i'd rather you not come in
my darkest corners.
Oh,yes, walk the main paths,
sweep the open verandahs, dust the lounge chairs of my heart
-then stop and let me be.
To look behind the door frames
and white glove my mop boards-
Isn't rudeness defined by these?
Didn't you give me this house-
then can't I have a closet to hide my secret things?
Lord, please, don't ask for all of me.
My home, my gardens
are not fit for a king.
But are they good enough
for a lowly child like me?
If my house you would have spotless
empty from nonliving
then my garden you'd have garish.
For fruits equate with death
-the serpent taught us that-
and so the colors you'd erase from my garden paths.
But, (if I may wrestle as Jacob did),
by keeping
sinful fruits from growing,
I miss the beauty of the green
and not just the red apple fruit.
I'm too small to ask
and I know your stubborn answer
but I would you'd let me live in the garden still.
I vow I'd walk the rows of plants
and simply smell the fruits
-no dining, no conversation
and certainly no touch-
to simply walk the garden paths
and see the colored fruits
the gifts you gave to me
and then took away by dropping them in sugar coated
promises of sinful cavities.
Lord, why paint an apple red
if you don't want it to be fingered?
But you've instructed me
to weed and prune
and fumigate -
stopping any growth
and I try.
Robotic-ly I turn the whole field brown
and miss the green
because you've told me to
and I'm no green thumb-
but I could, couldn't I, just let one flower grow?
St. Augustine, though,
shames me and shows me
that tiny greens I never pruned,
for thought they'd never bring me flowers,
have trammeled up my corners even so.
My intentions, my disregarding,
sins of commission and omission
pile up from infant hood.
Focus askew,
we worry for “umanity” and not humanity,
the simple sinner tells.
And our self-built Edens
become travesties -
a jail.
We do not even know it holds us
because we are contented with our cell.
These words are my confession,
to God and Mr. St. Augustine,
I can't.
I try.
I'm sorry.
I need more of you in me.
Show me how to keep a house
simple, pure, and clean.
Teach me how to grow my garden
in only white and green,
yet still somehow supply me
with a rainbow mottled life.
