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This is how I remember Eden—bright
zinnias, autumn-coloured marigolds,
brilliant yellow chrysanthemums
and Eve, like a stone in a gold ring,
her voluptuous bare belly
smooth as the skin of a nectarine.
And she would plant and harvest
fruit and flowers and vegetables,
perfect artichokes, perfect clusters of grapes;
offer them for Adam’s delight,
open the seeded pomegranate to feed
him the fruit each piquant seed by seed.
This isn’t the dream of a garden
but the memory of a true garden,
subject to season, fruition and decay.
In this Eden an innocent Eve
pleases Adam, converses with angels,
waits for the apple to ripen.
Does Adam dream Eve waits?
As if waiting for a baby to be born,
Eve, at the moment of harvest,
blameless as Adam’s naked body.
This is how I always remember Eden:
as Eve’s backyard garden,
and Eve, the gardener,
hoeing and weeding and waiting
for her garden to grow.
Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com,