One line of Eden

There is a sin-like storm seconds away.
Outside, the wind seems to swipe
at steel and tree alike -
the smoke of centuries 
reveals a cold, petulant heart
kicking at the air.

I reach an arm out to the steadily breathing ground: 

the animals near me.

Their foreheads of fur are
striped fields of wheat, pampas,
poppies snoring in the sun.

I trace one line of Eden
with a slowed heartbeat -
a fingertip of a vision,
but the gale is shrieking now
and I must hold

the memory of grass. 

LJ Ireton, 2025