Weeds and Poppies

My back garden is a torrent of weeds,
green tangled overflowing.
In it shines golden poppies, first one,
then more pushing through.

Yes I have this body, this face,
expressive hands, concerned expressions,
a listening, empathetic mind.
I have the dark hole, the devil doubt unlovable,
the knotted striving.

Inside hides, beyond, through muddy darkness,
a seed pure, complete.
Underneath tumbling gritty waters,
is a transparent, clear glistening.

I want to touch, to live in these things,
in shining truth, in authenticity,
in a luminescent pearl,
in a golden poppy.