And I lived in my tree, oh what a tree.  In the center of the garden is always a tree.  The right-sized tree for a serpent’s twining, oh such a tree.  Who could see where scales ended and bark began?  So we were, in the center of all. So I coiled, and the tree spoke: 

“I am the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  Eat and be filled.”  

In the dark center of the garden we lived, beneath canopies older than time, and they ate, the hungry humans.  In the center I spiraled and all were free.  

There were many Adams; this Adam was different.  

“Who gave permission to eat of this tree?” he demanded. 

Women laughed. 

“I was first,” he sputtered. 

They spit out pits, juice dripping from chins, and howled.  

“Cover yourselves!” he bellowed. 

They fell down laughing, holding their stomachs.  

Adam brought an axe.  He found the tree of the knowledge of good and evil does not flinch.  He brought fire.  We basked in its warmth.  Why was this man so angry about fruit?  We dismissed him from thought.  

Birds roosted.  Suns rose and fell.  Bees spun a web of nectar and children climbed branches to reach high fruits.  

Adam was tired.  He cursed his mother, said her sorrows should multiply. 

For the first time, the garden fell silent.  The call of a horned owl died mid-breath.  

We did not know sin. 

***

There was suspicion then; humans danced less.  

Children were shooed from dark places, and soon adults became scarce in garden depths. “Do you want to be eaten by a lion?” they were heard to say.  

“As if they were tasty,” spat a passing cat.

The humans dug up prairies, fighting rocks, ordered plants to bloom in lines and on time.  Next they mined metals and tore at soil with their machine-claws.  Snapdragon was forced into tomato, no matter how they wept.

And our fruit grew heavy, padding the forest floor.  And vines grew thick about our roots.  And the humans forgot the tree at the center of the garden, forgot the garden but what they read in books — and what strange books they were. 

“And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helpmate for him.”

The tree made funny voices to fit the funny character and we all laughed to tears, but the humans were not there to hear.  And vines grew thick and protective around garden edges.  

A passing cat remarked, “I hope they do not find their way back.” 

But I have not forgotten their songs.  

***

And I live in my tree, oh what a tree.  The right-sized tree for a serpent’s twining, oh such a tree.  Who can see where scales end and bark begins?  So we are, in the center of all. So I coil, and the tree speaks:

“I am the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  Remember my taste, and be free.  Return to the garden, and be forgiven.” 

In the center of the garden is always a tree.  

So we are, in the center of all. So I coil, and wait.  So I speak:

Blessed is the garden; in joy you are invited to eat of it all the days of thy life;

Thorns also and flowers shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the fruits of the trees;

In the cool of the evening shalt thou eat honey, till thou become food for roots; for from the garden were you dreamed: for a serpent’s dream thou art, and through my dreams shalt thou return.

[Katherine Rose Wort lives in the southwestern United States — where she just found an apartment with a little garden, after living a sadly soilless existence for some time.  She talks to unseen beings in public at Goddess & Grimoire.]