The Garden of Eden 

 

The Garden of Eden 

 

The gate to Eden is really only barb wire fencing 

strung between crook-necked  sticks,

hinged to rust-streaked limestone posts, bleeding on the prairie.

A gate to keep the  pasture in place for children and cows;

to play among devil’s claw, sucking the dirt 

from the roots of wild onions with purple flowers,

or play hide and seek with horny toads and box turtles.

At its tightest, saggy trousers and tattered shirts,

the latch,  a belt of baling wire slick in my sweaty palms.

Open, it flops in a hopscotch trap,

with barbs of steel poking the ground.

We were sentinels of silage, hauled in a dying farmer’s Ford pickup.

Prairie angels with sunflower swords, keeping out all that is bad-

escaping the wrath of rattlesnakes, fire ants, and sand burrs.

The Garden of Eden, before the fall.

 

First published in Nature Writing, 2017

Published by: Basicallybarb

Barbara A Meier is a poet, teacher, and mother, trying to write her way out of Kansas, anxiety and depression. Instead of indulging in feeling like garbage, trash, or rubbish, she chooses to examine the debris of her life by writing poems about it. After all as a forgiven, child of God, simultaneously saint and sinner, she is loved and cherished by her God.

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