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  • Does every garden dream of where the first wild seeds
    were cultivated within neolytic Eden?

    Before wildflowers and roses had names, it hardly matters
    as long as bees hummed and birds flew over a swath of green grasses,
    and the soil around rooted trees.

    Prehistory provides no words, no language, no written records,
    only limited evidence with speculative assertions.

    What was it like the day the first live, diverse buds forced
    themselves from branches to flower on its stem?

    Times when earth and the planet were honored, when life
    meant a more symbiotic relationship between land and living.
    Expendable was not yet a word in any dictionary.

    Genesis was the word. Gen. Generate, genetics, generic,
    genitals, the genre of geniuses, of gender and genuine genealogy.
    G e n. Gen that root word for the science of genetics
    has opened up a world of thought and knowledge inside of me.

    Down a garden path I literally and metaphorically
    can naturally order and learn, and grow - follow the existence of words.
    And my vocabulary must keep pace with new attained developments.

    All this sprouting growth is accompanied by language.
    Keep up the pace with words. Always words.
    Every thought has a root to unlock its beautiful treasures.
    And the root itself becomes a treasure to be cherished.

    I once had a love who sent me a dozen poems in a single day.
    They did not wilt or die from being cut from a stem.
    No water needed because words, they all live on.
    Binomial nomenclature. The Latin for he loves me is, "Amate me."

    In the cooling afternoon on its pedestal of stems,
    the gardener dreams of trees weighted down each fall
    with succulent red apples. I wait for new beginnings when springtime comes.
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