Curse.

The serpent slides, humbled, shorn
of pride;
ground pressed close, belly to dust,
upright and haughty no more.
Lowered, undone, cast asunder,
its hiss a muted echo of past chorus.

The land, once rich and yielding,
increasingly parched from the heat of fall;
soil giving up dark fertility, 
mantle thins, waters recede, 
dust rises where footsteps fell;
thorns and thistles stir,
roots twisting under wind and shadow.

The garden bows, bent beneath burden.
Rivers erode, aimlessly winding;
rocks shift, relentlessly crumbling;
air thickens with quiet consequence.
No curse upon humanity—
judgment waits, held back by promise,
restrained by mercy yet unseen.

Creation carries the weight:
ground, serpent, all things aligned
under the verdict of what is lost.
And still, YHWH Elohim speaks not.
The pause is heavy.
The curse reigns, 
silent, unyielding,
its verdict pressed into the bones of creation.