THE GARDEN IN SPRING

By Alice Bolstridge

In the beginning, when Adam awoke
and first saw the garden all blooming
and pastel green like here, did he ache
like this with the beauty
of blossom and apple and tree?

Or, was he one like some
born blind and suddenly restored to sight,
so pained by vision they refuse to see?
Did he cover his eyes with his hands?
Close them tight against the light?

Or did he delight in vision from the beginning?
Did he go about the naming in an ecstasy
of seeing, outlines of difference emerging
out of the blur, distinctions growing sharper,
clearer, smaller and smaller: forest, tree,
flower, bee, gold pollen grains on white petals?

Perhaps it was only after the naming frenzy
that he found fault with creation. He had God
and the whole garden—lavish with difference,
with presence—all to himself,
but he saw absence, yearned for a mate.

When he awoke to find Eve, did he see her
beautiful from the beginning: a short person,
hair streaming out away from her small face
in the wind, fleshy round breasts
between narrow shoulders, wide hips,
and the thatch between her legs
with its peculiar absence.

Did he see her beautiful at home
in the garden, bending down to gather
lettuce, new onions, and thyme gone wild?
Or was he more intent
on the ache of his missing rib?

Human from the beginning,
not divine, and becoming more distinct
from one another with each day,
did Adam and Eve together have to wait
for their bliss until after the fall
with its news of dying blazing
across the maple forests?
Did they have to wait
until after the fall and
long winter of knowing?



 

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