A tree, dressed lavishly in fruit ripe with knowledge
of good and evil (mostly the latter) stood with pride. The peak
of Babel, harbinger of the high tide, prince of the sky.
They ripped it from its roots in the garden to the east,
carried the plank west of the city where they burnt it.
The wind carried the ash and cast it into the ocean, but
it forgot a single seed that fell into soft soil. A shy lonely petal
seen on a sunny day, a pinky of the shaft rooted into the Earth
beneath the crust, beneath the mantle, beneath the core.
Steel limbs beneath a coat of soft soil, blooming with enough fruit
to reap the entire world dripping juices from their mouth.
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