And then his children fled the garden…
We'd spend nights huddled
around his tree, angelic wings
coated in the air's precipitate,
gorging on the forbidden fruit,
our eyes raised to the sky
yearning for retribution.
Other times we'd drift
past his first trees, now wilting, and
his first creatures, whose yelps faded
against the night.
Children can fall, irreverent to the loneliness.
Creatures, we may not fall, though
if we could, I doubt we'd make a thud.
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