Smoke in Eden

Blue smoke lilies rise,

break free of chimneys, blur,

vanish against the rocks.

When Eden was, we were

the first to tamp its roots,

nurse bud of vine and tree.

You built a roaring fire

and touched off flames in me;

then by its warm red coals

two babies curled their hands

around our own. But they

grew, always prone to stand

where they could see beyond

the garden and the trees.

For even in our Eden

strange scents rode in the breeze.

Our children dreamed of cities,

drank the lore of books,

and climbed the highest boulders

in their haste to look.

They pressed against a blue

so pure that it could shock

a city dweller's lung,

then disdained the lichened rock.

Our dirt-grained hands grope now

for bulbs in this cold loam,

for new leaf to replenish

the empty sills of home

—as if old growth might quicken,

flourish on this cliff,

and lilies, of mere smoke,

could float, fine-grained and stiff.

Copyright © 1986 Marian Jane Dickinson