And Adam, seeing that
immortality had not clothed him but
left his glory naked,
felt in his body the future ache
of all who would toil and moil
their mortal days, and
taking Eve’s hand, he hid
their rude-awakened flesh
in the quiet of a deceitful glade
while the immortal searched
to clothe them and teach
their mortal bodies again to praise.
I, like Adam, fancy myself a god
and hide when my flesh
exposes the subtle dream.
Yet in the cool of the day,
when the creator covers my failing skin,
I can learn it is better
to be clothed by Him.
The Consolations of Writing 