Fruit from the tree of life is sticky
and stains the front of my blouse,
purple kool-aid scented even when
the color is gone.
Absolute fate is a buckeye
and my brother smelling like rain
soaked and walking
through brambles ignoring things
he could pull off his clothes,
all the time eyes
waist high, scanning for the future.
Remembering is being happy when it rains again,
and learning new things about old earth habits,
like a bridge with a washed-out pillar
kneeling in the creek bed,
waiting for us to print our hands
with alabama river water on the rocks
Knowing a place is naming it
and everything in it
something you can remember,
maps do not tell you where
mudpuddles always form or
shadows collect in midday.
Holding up a stick
draped in lacy lichen, he
turns over a little world
missed when they calculate
how much of wild is left.
eden is alive in trees.