Sin once.

Sin once was a jungle, a
wide, chaotic garden
tended only by beasts
and God. Now, it is
an orchard we have

pruned, to bring
forth fruits in
fecund abundance, their
tart juices grown tame,
fertilized
by method and attention;
pleasure by the bushel yield
harvested, bled dry,
free and easy, cheap.
Tasteless.

We need to try neglect.

Let the orderly rows grow
over, wound and vined
and brambled in with
beautiful weeds,
forbidden trees again
grown wild, grown wicked
in their re-abandonment
grown overgrown

until we, the prodigal
gardeners, return to
the scene of temptation
and find it again
blessed. But really,
though - we know neglect.

It's just another method,
not the best.