The Last Eden

In the morning, a voice said Come, 
sow a garden; plant as if you were designing 
another Eden after the first one burned. 
The next one shriveled in pestilence. The ones 
after, too numerous to count, grew nothing
but moss and headstones. I am tired
of digging tunnels and hauling red-stained
stones— I want to lie down and sob 
for the last time among a profusion 
of white clover. I want there to be nothing 
for miles but a haze of yellow rockets, 
butterweed, canola; and from the hills,
regard a sea cleansed of dark cargo 
and spilled oil. I want for us to get up, 
covered in nothing more than the gold-
warm scent of the first true evening
after war. We'll feed each other 
simple things like water and bread 
and salt. No one will startle 
at the sound of pealing bells.