It is intangible, but I sometimes
picture it as being a lustrous pearl
built of layer on layer of nacre,
laid over the impressions, the shocks,
the itches, the pulls, the allurements
from inside and outside our being.
But most times I’m certain it’s more
like an onion, bulbous, with sheet
on sheet of opaque tissue joined
at the bottom to a little stem from which
the roots mate with the soil
of our earthy body, the ground
of our consciousness. Ego,
I absolve you of all your faults,
your misdeeds, even your goodness.
For who knows what you’ll be
when the nacre dissolves
in the dark silent wine;
when the roots shrivel, and the earth
is blown away with the wind.
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012