"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Paul Lytle

I wonder when the Winter last surprised me —
the first did come so quickly, grabbing us
away from Eden, forcing us to find
some thicker skins to wear. No longer was
it simply shame that caused us cover up.
I may have found some warmth in human touch,
but wouldn't then. I couldn't love her then.
I didn't learn forgiveness quite so soon.
Yet still we walked together, for even guilt
and shame and anger bettered travel alone.
We did not know that Spring would someday come —
we thought that Winter eternal be, as though
the snow was part of sin. But no, 'twas just
the seasons passing. I know them all by now.

I learned forgiveness; Eve did too, and we
have learned it o'er and o'er along the way.
And we have learned to love, and not the love
we knew in Eden, wondered by the sight
of something new. No, now we love because
we know each other. A hundred Winters passed,
and not a single night we've spent apart —
not one. That is the way I know her now.

'Twas long ago our walking stopped. We picked
a spot to build a shelter, right beside
a narrow brook with forests just beyond,
which holds wood and game enough to last
another hundred Winters. From here we watch
the sunrise — never was there time before.
We always rushed away at dawn to walk
and walk and reach nowhere. We never spoke
of what we searched, but both did know. We sought
a path to lead us back to Eden.
But e'er the flaming sword would block our way.

The sword does grow in every little sin,
and I confess that many now are burnt
upon this heart. But, oh, the one that weighs
the most was not a wrong of mine, but Cain's.
But what could I have said that may have then
prevented this? We raised the boys as one,
and everything we said we said to both,
and everything we did was done with both.
Yet Abel grew to be devout and strong,
while Cain was angry. Maybe that he got
from me. Yes, maybe that he got from me.
For even after all that time, I still
did speak of Eden, and seemed to blame my wife
in every tale — I never failed to point
at her and tell about the gilded fruit,
the fruit that sparkled with the sun with taste
like light and warmth of Spring, and yet was hallow.
Perhaps dear Abel was heir to Eden, he had
no place without. Perhaps this world is one
for Cain — for this is all we've so far seen.
So far we've seen but pain since we did sin.
Perhaps the death ordained to us because
of what in Eden did is not a mere
physical passing, but death instead of all
our joys — of even pride in children, yes.
Must even that, a touch of Eden, be
forever past our reach, as though the sword
will even guard our hearts and keep them pained?

But no! the sword has not consumed me all,
for still I love, and know a love beyond
what even Eden showed me long ago.
For Eve, of course, for Cain and Abel still.
I have no longer blame — it's now forgotten.
Perhaps this way my father loves and e'er
will think on me. And just as I have Cain's
betrayal forgiven, so has mine been cleansed.

The sunset comes — and in its colors I
can see the flaming sword. Its reds do swirl
into itself, and tells me walk no more.
And knowing I can walk no more, I lay
beside my wife and sleep and dream of Eden.
But in the dawn I see that Garden — light
absorbs me and says to me, "Rise,
there is still life, and still love,
and Eden still remains. The Spring remains."
The journey takes no walking, only time.
And 'til it comes I'll pass the Winters held
within the arms of Eve, and watch the dawn
for just another glimpse of paradise.