BLAME

Garden before fall, eyes awake, wise and clear,
free to receive land and fruit, neighbor and lover, God and gift.

Now sight tilts. Everything leans, not toward wonder, but use.
What might bend, might cover, might serve.

A leaf, priest in Eden’s order, participant in the holy liturgy,
breathing with the garden, keeping time with the Breath-giver,
is torn from home and purpose, seized and stitched,
made slave to humanity’s shame.

The garden lowers with us.

Open ears hear the familiar evening wind,
soft steps through dew-pressed grass,
now with thunder filling the trees,
smoke and lightning, ram's-horn blasting.
Open eyes see it now, exposed, naked, and ashamed.

Hide.

The ground trembles. Do not come near.
Surely, this is what Power must mean.
Surely, shame must not be seen.
We shrink, gathering excuses like garments.

Where are you? The voice is unchanged.
We are not.
The woman, the gift—she gave.
The serpent, the tempter—it deceived.

Fault passes quickly now, from hand to hand, heart to heart,
never resting long enough
to be possessed.