In primal garden
the tree
stands laden,
splendor
consummate,
grace-rooted,
owned by him
who warns,
don’t eat or
sure you’ll die.
Yet you,
arrogant Adam
in us all,
grasp prerogatives
never due.
Thrust out,
bedeviled,
you stumble toward
that other tree,
cross-beamed
for life.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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