Fruit from the tree of life is sticky

and stains the front of my blouse,

purple kool-aid scented even when

the color is gone.

Absolute fate is a buckeye

and my brother smelling like rain

soaked and walking

through brambles ignoring things

he could pull off his clothes,

all the time eyes

waist high, scanning for the future.

Remembering is being happy when it rains again,

and learning new things about old earth habits,

like a bridge with a washed-out pillar

kneeling in the creek bed,

waiting for us to print our hands

with alabama river water on the rocks

Knowing a place is naming it

and everything in it

something you can remember,

maps do not tell you where

mudpuddles always form or

shadows collect in midday.

Holding up a stick

draped in lacy lichen, he

turns over a little world

missed when they calculate

how much of wild is left.

eden is alive in trees.