Time is simple here again, in Eden,
where we watch our kids dig worms from
earth, their first creative act. Friends and loves come
talking talk like talk will lack an ugly end.
Gardens here do not die beneath our fervent eyes,
proving life is alive. Breathing, toiling,
life must work itself to life by grasping
life before us. But staged here, the garden lies.
The ephemeral flower fades unseen,
and fences keeping gardens still, like Troy,
do not withstand eternity. Even the beams
of light that break through gaps of wood are coy
at dusk, for Eden is not for us to know.
Outside this outer side, life waits, forever owed.