The thorn laden vine sends runners,
Never changes in character,
Sprouting the same useless mass of
Thorny growth, a mess to remove
From an otherwise, well kept garden.
Useless, fuel for the fire, incapable
Of alteration, coming up again and again,
A crass weed among the desired,
Stately and admired, the beautiful.
What if we are all like this in the end?
A thorny weed in the Garden
Of Eden; certainly one can
Concede, at its root, at it’s weedy
Root, is Christ, the Creator of all things.
Gary Edward Geraci
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