Blame.

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

Now sight tilts.
Everything leans, slanted;
not toward wonder, but 
to measuring in the garden what
might bend,
might cover, 
might serve.

A leaf,
priest in the Edenic order,
participant in the holy liturgy,
breathing with the garden,
keeping time with the Breath-giver.
No longer priest, but slave—
torn from home, from purpose,
seized and stitched with trembling hands,
bound against skin,
assigned to cover
humanity’s shame.

The garden lowers with us.

Open ears hear a familiar sound,
evening breeze rustling leaves,
soft steps padding through dew-pressed
garden grass,
but now the sound of thunder
—smoke and lightning, ram's-horn blasting —
fills the space between the trees.

Open eyes see it now.
Exposed. Naked. Ashamed.
Hide.

The ground trembles.
Do not come near.
Surely, this is what Power must mean.
Surely, shame must not be seen.
So we shrink.
We gather excuses like garments.
It is not us.
It is not me.

A beckoning — “Where are you?”
The voice is unchanged.
But we are not
the same.

The woman, the gift—
she gave.
The serpent, the tempter—
it deceived.
Fault moves quickly now,
from hand to hand, heart to heart,
never resting long enough
to be possessed.