On a branch in a green afternoon the Serpent coils up and up
closer and closer to the Children.

First Words still hang in the air.
That is how young the world is.
But now there is nothing more to say.

There is a river outside of the garden.
The river is Time.
Let us go there and set forth.

Pushing off into the current,
no hope of return.
We will forget
but our blood will remember forever.

Each day awakens
looking up at Father Sky,
looking down at Mother Earth
embracing her children.

Weirdlings stand among the crowds,
hands lifted to the vault of heaven,
feet rooted in the earth,
uttering shadows of true Words.

Words that comfort and beguile,
myths binding tight the past,
billowing net-like into the future.

The Abyss that is timelessness beckons.
Treading to the edge either to drift away
or fearfully withdraw into soothing numbness.