. El Melon There is a maze or map on melon skin Even the blind could read and seek to solve. A little girl watches the housewives, deft, Touching the head shapes swiftly, one by one, Until they somehow know which to select. Sometimes they set it wobbling in the tray Under the clock-face, watch a moment, frown, Then lick a finger, peel a plastic bag. You ever wish that you could read God’s mind? Open a cantaloupe. And treat yourself To the smooth color of His current vibe. What do you think of? Salmon? Marble slab? The stone bricks of a lost piazza site. The glow of frescoes at an excavation. This is a globe of youth. A honey well. Carve it like sherbet for the President. . . El Arbol A garden was Our Father’s first idea. The abbot made his hand into a cup And gently poured the water from his palm: “Because the shoots can’t bear a sudden rush.” The grace of water flanks Hole 17. He laid out royal palm trees, coconuts, And limned the fairways with a thousand oaks To complicate the whispers of the dusk. Are the trees just a sideshow, casting shades? I’m asking of Saints Martin, Dominic. Appleseed answers with his pan for hat: It’s all gratuitous, magnificence. Like God’s first plan. It’s nothing that He needed. He did it all for love, America. Your blooming treehouse, child. Your Fall apple. Orange groves, olive rows. A thousand oaks. . . Monika Cooper is an American family woman.