Spring Psalm

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.