There is a nativity scene in my backyard every morning.
I can look out the window and observe,
With tired eyes, the birth of Christ
And the treachery of Cain
And the flood of Noah
And the sacrifice of Abraham
And even Moses’ burning bush.

The sun rises above the forest every morning.
It smiles on the grass and makes it grow;
The dewdrops on the trampoline
Cast tiny rainbows on the black rubber surface;
A tiny autumn breeze sways the trees
And they dance with a mysterious genius
That man cannot know.

I can hear the music of the birds in the morning.
There are tiny red berries and honeysuckle flowers
On the trees at the edge of the woods;
There is no serpent, though,
And there is no Eve to pick them and eat them,
And there is no Adam, naked and ribless,
And there is certainly no angel swinging a flaming
Sword in my Garden of Eden.