Adam names the animals with Nickole Brown and the only thing that remains

I enjoyed proofreading a friend’s manuscript recently. So well written. Full of ancient history, archeology, mythology. What struck me was how very little remains of those ancient civilizations. Shards of pottery, some scrawled markings on stone. With our frail methods of storage (digital and thin slices of tree), I imagine even less will remain of our civilization. And ours is bound to fall, yes? Hasn’t every civilization before ours? So all these words I write – nearly 40 years’ worth of journals and poetry – will vanish. “Can anything we create outlast us?” I wondered. Then, as corny as it sounds, I wondered if what best has the chance of surviving the apocalypse is love. 

If I’d read these words of mine a few years ago, they would have sounded ridiculous - too "new agey," too “woo woo.” But I’m feeling the weighty hope of them today. Maybe even a little seed of kindness has potential to grow, become part of the human story that transcends physicality and shape in some way the energy of the universe.

Meanwhile, I came across this poem by Nickole Brown that I immediately wanted to share with everyone I know. It will most likely not survive the apocalypse, so we'd best enjoy it now.

When Adam Ate From the Tree of Knowledge, All the Animals Ate From It, Too

Of course it was he 

who did the naming, my little king 

strolling the loam, ducking under dripping boughs 

pointing, you, over there, now you and you and you, 

meaning, no, you’re not one of us, neither are you, so now 

let me tell you what you are, stuffing each catch with 

taxonomies and syllables, displaying each in the cage 

words make. I tried hard not to roll my eyes, followed along, 

teased his arrogance by silly-making his labels, un-naming 

his possum a bristled midnight whisker-did, 

his raccoon a clutchy-pawed, rock-hopping fish-washer, 

his chipmunk a racing-striped, seed-cheeking zinger 

unzipping the brambles in a toothy squeakflash. 

When he bristled, I backed off, softsaying, 

Oh, my Adam. Always so serious, said nothing 

of his un-miracling miracles, 

each signified being ignorantly blinking 

at the sound of their new name, refusing to come 

when he called. Frustrated, he sped up 

as an auctioneer might, faster and louder— 

fox! wolf! cricket! grizzly!— 

lemur! toad! cicada! hawk!— 

and when I couldn’t resist, I said, 

Oh, Adam, don’t you know? That eyelashed 

fellow too tall to bend his knees, we just met him, 

remember? Don’t call him giraffe. His name is 

God. When he didn’t laugh, I quit 

sassing, told him what was on my mind, said, 

Look up in the trees, my upright clay thing, my loneliest 

animal divided and dividing himself 

from the rest. See that quivering, that common 

acorn quizzer curving a question mark with his tail? 

He’s telling you the beginning and end to everything 

is a question, so don’t try to force answers, honey. 

Don’t stomp the garden with your 

dictionaries and schemes. He was good and pissed 

by then, ready to strike, so when I saw that diamond vine 

smelling us with his tongue, I knew what to do, 

knew only one thing to keep him 

animal, to level the playing field. 

Okay, okay, okay, I shushed. 

Calm down. I’m sorry. Here, 

try a bite of this.