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Poetry

I think he planned it, sort of, from the start;
whether he knew they’d choose the fruit or not,
he scattered hints around the garden, what to do
in case they got themselves kicked out. A shirt
of fur around the lamb. The stream converting
water into syllables. Bamboo pipes.
The caps of mushrooms round as wheels.
Bluebirds composing tunes. He knew nothing
they started later would be new. Except he
didn’t factor in the thorns, how they would smart
as Adam—leaving—drove one through his foot.
How clever Romans would invent a crown.
He didn’t figure weeds could break His heart.


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