The root of the problem

There is a tree within my grove

whose roots run deep and wide.

Entangled in heart’s hallowed cove,

their knots pulled tight, clandestinely wove–

I fear they’ve made their home inside. 

I take up my shears in defiant pose,

and tend the tree with good intent.

But with each branch cut, another grows,

no measure of trimming will end the woes

of a spirit broke, bruised, and bent.  

The result, I fear, is a fleeting prize–

all pruning fades in impermanence. 

All efforts, though valiant, are ill-advised, 

we must dig deep to the source of such lies,

and end this futile maintenance. 

The ego stands— a towering weed,

its roots unseen in shadowed earth.

This is the truth we fail to heed:

we hack at limbs and miss the seed,

the source that gives each branch its birth.

Let us dig where truth runs deep,

beyond the surface, past disguise.

Oh humble gardener, let’s make that leap,

for only there does silence keep

the boundless Self that never dies.

No self remains to grasp or cling,

no falsehood left to block the Son.

There’s no fear left of thy gracious sting,

now remove the roots, let thy soil sing—

the work of freedom has begun.