That never will in other Climate grow”
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Is this how it feels to have one foot in Eden
straddling the gap between soil and sky,
the road fringed with plots too plentiful to count,
a story blooming in each clump of dirt?
Is this how it feels to draw long the last breath,
diaphragm stretching, ribcage expanding
for every lost and wide-winged wildling
she ushered through your door?
This is how creation splits:
how the whole world cracks and the light pours in
and the war-worn trenches of her wilted face
cradle shoots of life that lift you up
toward a new and flowering land.