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Kim Bridgford
reads
The Eden Song
in Real Audio format.
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Some days she finds herself in love with all
That makes her God: the cobbled flicker of
A toad, the grass in swaths of fresh-cut smell,
The leaves, like gleams of paradise in grief,
Falling off the tree. And sometimes God
Is gone in her, small as an Easter hat
Of bloom that spoils in its aftermath to nod
Out of a vase. Even love is like that:
The silhouette that blurs itself with need
That's met and met; the caress that passes through
To the hyperbole of dawn. This greed
Can mask the anonymity of dew:
Inconsequential pearls that wet the boots,
To be scattered in what's tangled at the roots.
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