Ancient Horticulture - Poem by Lamont Palmer
..........Distinct goodness does not grow like vines,
though the blackness of time skips: place to heart,
to images on windows, gathering dust.
I am tired of the disjointed branches,
which look like talking snakes and grand themes,
combined to make the life they lead, a dream.
Juxtaposing the planting with the digging, its
the confusion of seeds for meat, a gross
misinterpretation, leading to rotting bellies.
Grand voices frighten the supple fruit,
as the gardeners run for dry shelter
and fig leaves are placed at strategic doors.
Knowledge is masked: nothing grim shines through,
(though the Tigris breathes deeply in wary chests)
As the lushness of plants seem to spare us.
Eden's misstep? Born in each great root,
subtle as bylaws refuted by angels.
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