Walks around the garden
Tiny knives of grass press
the soles of her feet,
their green backs lifting and sighing
while a wind twists its fingers through,
She looks back to where the Garden used to be
but doesn’t dwell there long.
Lightly touching now-gray monoliths,
trunks she used to know as evergreen,
her feet stumble
on ground cracking like chapped lips,
their names draining away
in the crumbling yellow
and auburn of absent leaves.
Fog dresses the way back to the tent
like an endless curtain,
until epileptic orange contortions interrupt,
frolicking blades forming visions of Seraphim
and bringing her cheek to the mud.
She must have found her way back to the entrance again.
But Adam reaches out and brings her inside the thatched roof,
Fire. That’s what he calls it.