The Statue of Eve

Slim as a rib, out of the public grass,
In this dying October garden
Where both I and my brother pass,
She begs our pardon
Fearing what parents fear when children meet,
The Elderly Guilty who sense
That disapproval of defeat
And of self-defense
Which is the sole response a child may give
To his inheritance,
The world his parents make and give,
Small recompense
Indeed, for that forbidden Spring-time garden
Each child is cheated of;
An outstretched arm, she begs our pardon
We who now move
In private pattern through her timeless chapel
And mark our time, until
We pluck the dappled death-worn apple
That eats the will.