Forest of Eden

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He could never quite find

What made it paradise.

Was it the way needles fell

From the shadeless pines,

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Or the river that raised

His grandmothers’ babies?

Or was it inkpens, schoolteachers,

and channel changers?

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He was forlorn for the absent,

Empty graves in the forest,

Made by an orphaning storm,

That left only hollows to mourn.

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The keys he’s forgotten:

The seeds in his pocket

And the planting,

and the passing of time.

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