With the Living Tree’s bark rough on his back
and the lovebirds dancing in the sky,
Adam cried out his fear:
he does not – no, he cannot
endure
perpetual unwholeness.
Born into paradise,
he ached for more.
The Breath whispers, in humility,
It is not good to be alone.
The tears on his lips
convince me that when I
perched last night on a rounded root
of the knotted oak
in the park
by the lake
and cried about being
alone,
it was actually,
all along,
a life-long
prayer.