Visitors of Eden
We are the visitors of Eden;
we are searching
for the way back to seeing.
I was looking for a guide
but I only wanted a protector,
to treat me like a lover
and to save me from the storms.
Rather, I must listen
to the garden’s growling growth
and watch its creatures learning slowly,
feeding on each other, just to wonder
at harsh indifference
and to marvel at this cold beauty;
riding waves and chasing tails
in strange greatness.
The artist wants to be gentle
and keep herself clean,
but the seer is just a child, kind yet vulturous;
blood-stained and mud-soaked,
talking with the trees.
Where was I before I was found here,
land-locked in laggard limbs,
slack-jawed and gaping
at the world?
I remember I could hear
the trees talk back to me.
And I remember
when I was the hunter
and when I was the prey
and when I was the watcher,
I am watching the garden
shrivel and bulge and bleed and blossom.
I am here, in spring,
soon to watch summer turn to autumn,
as I was here
one thousand years ago,
when these ancient forests still were young.
I have existed since the dawn of time
and seen through many different eyes.
The soil will swallow me again;
there I will wallow in soft slumber,
in rich siennas and warm umbers,
until one day
I’ll be sculpted into another form
to fumble further down the path.
I am a vessel of consumption
and a vessel of creation;
and when the world takes back my bright blue eyes,
It will pour from them the sea
back into its basin.