Spring PsalmJenny Browne
Even the pickup truck is pregnant with watermelons. Soon a hundred arms will leave that farmer aching with sun -swelled possibility. Almost enough to forget weeks when too many wires cross the sky for a falling tree to miss. If I am nothing more than the revenge I seek, make it small, a punt for the sweaty soda cup. I dig my own holes wider than the planting instructions suggest. How long can we sing, a bell ringing in the middle of an empty street? The snow cone man knows I’m a sucker for the hopeful. The world is my screen door I shall not slam.
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