I hold the oldest garden in my heart
like a memory that has yet to happen;
unfolding beneath my eyelids with
wave upon wave of desert heat rising up
to meet my questioning mind. I want
answers – knowledge – but that fruit
has already been picked and we know now
it does not satisfy.
The seed in the sand, it’s buried by ages,
by war and weariness, drowned by a river,
flowing over love – all we see is death –
but the light of life (the light that is love)
will not be extinguished. I reach into the flame
reaching out to me – fire burns the edges of
my ink, melting the frozen hardness
that is my heart.
It is so old, this soul of mine – it is so old,
it wipes the dust from Adam’s tomb.
The stream of sand flows through cracks
in my mind’s floor, knowledge seeps through,
so many burned books gone to ashes.
Yet the tree burns, this life burns:
knowing is not loving – Love is beyond
and through and past knowledge.
This garden demands a transaction – word
for word, tree for tree, pharaoh for baby
in the bulrushes. The garden makes demands,
life for life – and there it is, crucified,
tree of death becomes tree of life,
the only answer that will satisfy
this ancient magic. I am undone, I am alive:
This tree is on fire. My soul is on fire.