A Dark Thought in a Green Shade

A Dark Thought in a Green Shade

Somewhere in the newly planted earth,

a god sits at his bench, creating

and curating each little plant and flower.

Day upon day he nurses roots, stems

and leaves, talks to fragile saplings,

puts to work all the surprising symmetries

and fractals he dreams of when he sleeps

for hours in the afternoon sun.

Neither a Moses nor a Prospero,

but looking like both, the god puts down

his staff and exhales a fragrant cloud

that veils the garden with a warm sweet mist.

From the soil a tree of souls shoots up.

It is pleasant to the sight, blossoming

and wet with juicy mesocarps.

It is good. And the god comes to rest,

to sleep beneath its branches, to dream

his dreams of childlike pictures

of verdurous paradise.

But close by, some chthonic deity,

sinuously coiled amid the roses

is inclining near, wreathed and twisted

in folds, desiring the tree’s drooping fruit,

wanting them for his own dark treasury.

But still the god sleeps and dreams

a viper has come to bruise his heel

in the quiet solace of his garden.