Those must have been the sweetest nights, to meet
your sons around the fire and tell firsthand
the greatest bedtime stories in the land.
When serpents walked (before they lost their feet)
and how you named each bird and beast. And when
you fell asleep alone but woke up wed,
with one less rib and man’s first wound. Your bed,
now far too small, you quickly built again.
How neighbors talked: “That man’s the one who ate
the fruit. His wife did too.” Your tale is why
two cherubim still block the garden gate.
I wish that you were by the fire tonight—
to tell of lands where lions, tame and proud,
still feast on leaves, and God still speaks out loud.
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