There Was the Garden, and There Was After—
In primordial forests of our making lies the original mystery.
It calls to us now from the tangled roots of our mortal mystery.
The turtle in the Gulf swims its long good-bye without grieving,
for it and its kind know without knowing; this is about mystery.
In the morning, fog blanketed the valley, veiling twisted oaks
in milky vapor. Don’t look too closely, insisted mystery.
By noon the mist burns off, revealing tended rows
of vines weighted with fruit in summer’s verdant mystery.
We dine on peaches marinated in wine and fragrant herbs
and …
