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I shall call her, Ave Formossisma!

Behold the most beautiful one!

For that is what she is: most beautiful.

What other guise would you have

the mother of all mankind be under?

Of course, by this, I mean no other than Eve,

fair Eve, Eve who once lived in the Garden.

Why should I not think of her, I who owe

what I am to her, whatever guise she might possess,

whether woman shaped by aliens, the Anunnaki,

bred from our simian ancestors to do toil for them,

or Mitochondrial Eve, ancient mother in Africa,

or Eve herself, cast out of Eden.

I went to the garden once.

I don’t know how I went or why.

It was one night on the borders of sleep,

but it was not sleep that took me there.

The grass upon which I stepped was substantial.

When I reached down it yielded to my fingers.

I was in the garden of the most beautiful.

A few times I blinked and stood to consider.

My time in this place was limited, that I knew.

I had to get right to the heart of it.

To one side, there was a cataract, a tendril of water

that cascaded down into a pool from on high.

This, I saw, was a place of peace.

I moved toward the center.

There stood a tree. The Tree.

I stepped toward it, reached out to pluck a ripe fruit.

But instead, my fingers grazing the juicy thing,

I saw her standing there, a little way away.

She was beautiful, with brown skin and black hair.

I was in love with her at once, so ancient and wise,

my ever-eternal mother in the heart of the world.

And, seeing her there, I had the sudden sense

that everything in this world is rational,

reasonable, that I am fully part of it,

that I could (like her) start something

that one day would reach all around the world.

What else then, but that, blinking,

uncovering this sudden revelation within my mind,

I should find myself lying in bed once more,

staring up at the ceiling.

The same, but somehow different.

I suggest to everyone to take a trip

to the Garden of the Most Beautiful.