Two leagues to cross this lake, and twenty toward
The place the sun arises in the east
On midyear’s day. The sign’s not moved or ceased,
Nor has the river, nor that wet-kneed ford
We splashed across before the angel’s sword—
That all remains, but we have changed, at least,
And all that garden’s glory, all that feast,
Fades from us, as the presence of our Lord.
My son, touch this poor semblance of a leaf,
And its soft edge; ah, it’s a noble thing,
But I’ve seen Eden, and its scent and sound,
And we are shadows, son, and know the grief
Of flying things that flit along the ground,
Or men who hear a song, but cannot sing.

Lynn Martin loves stories and epiphanies, and believes that good poetry expresses humanity’s deepest longings.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy