Today as the season of bloom truly begins
its retreat in the form of the neighbor lady
cutting back her lilies, and the anxious look
of crickets, and the lull between certain birdsong,
I'm praising the snake its silvery tongue.
I'm praising Eve and Adam their hunger
and wondering the explosion's million colors. Heartbreak,
as the boundless path unfolded and the cold
took hold? What then of God? Did crave
still have his name? Or did the hand
that drew the two from dust loosen
its grip as they studied the taste
of each other's mouths, as their own hands
made the first human cries
beneath that night? And when that song
reached their God, didn't he smile, and caress
the slithering thing in his lap,
both of them proud of their children's first steps?