Genesis 3: 8a They heard the sound of the LORD God
walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze
There is a certain hum
at dusk that starts low, thrums
just at the edges—
follows the line of light
that runs like a blade
along the horizon, segmenting
day and night, quarters of an orange
ready to fall into my open palms
held up to the heavens, waiting
evening begins. Cool greens rise
from fern fronds and Tamarisk moss
that drink shadows whole—
gulping them down until nothing is left
but the dark, dark earth singing psalms
to stars in loamy tongues learned
before we were formed.
But all things end, even the stars
flicker tender farewells
while Tiger Figs fall, bruised
by the ground. I pluck one last
fruit off its branch, the sweetness
of dying light runs down my chin.
I know I am flickering too, full of dust
that can’t be revived, so I follow
this night whispering to no one,
do not forget me.
