It Started In A Garden

It started in a garden,
I read it in a book,
The ink was pressed down soil,
The pages made of mulch.

An evacuated aroma,
The pungency of sound,
In the garden where things started,
To be permissed or disallowed.

And the flocks that would unravel,
Down uncharted consequence and time,
But let’s all remember gardens,
The stadium of life.

Janitorial microbes,
Dusting off apparent dust,
So clever and yet guiltless,
And deserving all our trust.

The unity perceived,
Feels so sacred and so whole,
One might feel inspired,
To take up a rural pen…

And share what feels as though
It could be delivered from above.

I yelled to my friend,
“What did you say?”
And he said something about God.