Eden

Were you too borne forth from foaming sea,
conceived in the thralls of my troubled mind:
beauty, beauty to soothe the savage seas
the wind-whipped waves borne of my breast,
that savage island of blood which you first touched?
Did the lush love planted there, buried beneath
blood and vain, not spring forth upon your first step?
In the soft sand were you left the foamed puddle
of your first footprint upon my heart, did blossoms not bloom
bearing fruit? and as you ran along the rocky shore, did the red
sand spraying, spurting from your sprint not turn to a soft rain,
watering wishful gardens all along the path you'd stepped?
Did the fierce beat of the savages taut drum not turn
to a soft song, melody whispered in your ear by the wind-
the wind that sings "soon soon", "you you" or "true true" and
carries the wings of broken daisy written "she loves you not"
from all those whose relationships wrecked far from shore.
And the stream which you first saw your reflection in,
those dark blue passionate windows, did it not seem
to wash up with sympathy, passion, and love?
Was it not your hand goddess which turned this barren
bluff, this bloody island to the lush Eden?

But did you plant too the Tree of Knowledge, the seeds
of our destruction? My own green thumb fears sinking
beneath the blue depths should you bite of it.