The Garden Womb

The Garden Womb She is not virginal Not unused Not pure Being ancient and of old, Inevitably, Been touched before. Many years a widow, She is a lonesome, barren land. So many passing lovers; Needing a faithful Husbandman. For she was present In the first garden; Feeling the slithering belly Of the snake. And when the curse was given, One womb quickened, And The other Was Laid waste. The womb smells of dusty earth. Her salty tears bring only pain. She waits for the Husbandman To finally bring the latter rain. He will work the soil Scrap metal fingers through to damp. In love and anticipation, Tiny seeds he will plant. If the womb is ready, If it is the perfect time, Then the Planted seeds Will grow into The True Vine. Growth will begin, Bearing fruit, Lusty, Strong, And Bold. Increasing and multiplying Making a Mother Of the Old.