Serpent snakes like a whisper against the loam,
silver tongue stirring the stillness of leaves,
not malice but hunger for the hidden depths,
where the garden’s promise aches to be broken.
Serpent is not curse but question made flesh,
a ribbon of knowing threading the branches,
its eyes lamps for the blind roots,
its hiss-gospel voice buds cannot blank.

The earth quickens with oath and tremor,
innocence bends like grass to the gale,
serpent-secret river opening over the surface,
the fuse of awakening.
Spark of Eden, kindling fruit to form.