The Descent of Man

 

    This appeared in Poetry Proper.

In Abel‘s garden green prevails.

No. More than that. Green triumphs. Rules.

The handles of his garden tools

are stained. The moss is thick and slick,

and time has greened the very nails

that fix the trellis. Every stick

is smothered as it is tamely laid,

shaded while it is making shade.

Nothing of sere is sensed or seen.

Eden stood up and voted green.

The grass is master in this place.

The trees resist, but not for long,

where blackbirds wear their color wrong,

their rites revoked, each note, each word.

The bee permitted hides its face

in foliage, its dapple blurred.

Green, says the rose, and bends back down.

Sorry, says brick, for being brown;

I‘ll change, I will. The sun is gone.

It tried, and failed, to burn the lawn.

Whimsy, to think that man was meant

to rise above his verdant grace.

He raised, and he regrets, his face—

pink is not creature color. Vast

cities and tombs beneath the bent

blade: and he occupies them last.

Ask a man what the heavens mean,

he‘ll answer; ask him, Why is green?

he‘ll colorlessly turn away.

We‘re left no clue; we leave no clay

undecorated. In the mud

we build with sweat, we fail to note

the color builded thick by rote:

home is green. In the failing light,

the tide of green engulfs the blood,

thickens the pulse, promises night,

and keeps its word. Trees never go.

Grass does not leave. Leaves never show

regret. We are becoming less

than oak and shrub and fern and cress.