The Apple, the Serpent, and the Woman

In the garden before time began,

silence grew on every branch.

The air breathed softly —

and a woman stood,

alone,

beneath a tree that shimmered red with knowing.

A serpent watched,

its voice a silver thread of wind:

“Why do you hesitate, gentle one?

The fruit is not forbidden — only waiting.”

She smiled — not from courage,

but from curiosity,

the first spark of all creation.

When her hand reached out,

the world did not fall —

it awoke.

The sky trembled.

The earth inhaled.

And a whisper crossed the air:

“Now you will know what it means to choose.”

She turned to the man beside her,

offering him the apple’s glow.

“Taste,” she said,

“and see how paradise begins again — within.”

And somewhere,

in the hush of roots and shadows,

the serpent smiled,

whispering to the wind:

“They call it the fall.

I call it the rise.”