Spring scraps

Our backyard today is an island
Wind rushes and roars like the sea
Wrapped around us, and the sounds
Of the streets seem as faroff as dreams.
The trees shiver and cast down their leaves--
Rustle and hiss, like the crashing
Of waves on the sand of the beach--
My barefooted babies dig toes in the dirt,
Build their castles and mountains of leaves
Which the wind laps and licks. It whispers
And spits, till they crumple and slump
round our feet, in their separate leaves.

*
i think sometimes Heaven is a long string
of watermelon days:
hot, unhurried labor in good soil,
dirt black and sweet enough
for thicksprung flourishes--
tomatoes, beans--May be
in heaven there are no weeds-- may be
we know each green thing's name
and name its gift: to us, to its sisters, to the soil
May be
that good ground bears enough
for insects, birds,
for all the little hungry things
and for our tending hands
to pick, and eat
After our day's work: thickskinned,
crisp with its juice,
sweet
In heaven we will have forever
to meet each melon knit into those genes:
to cross, to tend, to grow,
to meet the scarlet, orange, gold
fleshed melons,
to open them and taste
the fruit of thornless labor
We will break them together among us
ripe and sweet
*
Sweet May! The fairest month by far.
What April promised slyly
And then in chill drew back
May brings, all golden smiling,
Drops all her beauties in your lap:
Winds her thick and sweet scents round you
Like winding--and when she's bound you
Scratches at your throat and eyes
With pollen, till you scream to die
And wish her sweets and flowers blight
That you might breathe again at night.