she never knew what the garden had made of her.
somewhere between the sacred and the fallen,
she became something the heavens could not name.
the roots took hold where memories once lived,
and something ancient stirred beneath her skin.
yet she remembered neither the beginning
nor the moment she ceased to be what she was.
she carried the silence of a forgotten heaven,
and wore the shape of a world not yet born.
neither blessed nor forsaken,
neither wholly of the earth nor the divine,
she lingered where all things first become
at the threshold of what they are,
and what they are destined to become.
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