Immaculate

I thought of you today

overwhelmed with tears

at the beauty of the garden

perfectly trimmed, formed, tilled

I thought of you–

a mess

How neat and trim we are at birth

How slaught-upon with muck

of worldly corruption, ideas,

philosophies, moments

Mud building up on the

once-clean skin of our

souls

Boh.  (I have no idea.)

Away, away

to wash away the slimely

crawly, worm-invested

mud.

No grub of this mud will do you any good.

Please go clean up

Wash yourself in a cleansing river

a good old seven times.

-Naphtalia