Huckleberry your way into the backyard. Watch silently
as father is serenely brushing the fence. Ask him why
he smiles so grandly. He hands you a brush and says to try.
Paint the primer with pinched fingers facing upward,
hand deftly dabbing in strokes swift with its soft swish.
Heaven can’t paint itself. God leaves us with work to do.
Paint paradise onto rotting wood. Give the parameter
a new face, a new disguise. Soon, the yard will be surrounded
with cirrus hue; the Southern comfort of gospel in example.
Make repairs to these planks. Build a church out of gorilla glue,
old nails, and rusty screws. Send the hammer home every time
and show God you are working. We can’t have him know
we dream of idols, of sleep, of money, of lovers, of everything but
His work. Feel the guilt. Then, pick yourself back up and sweat.
Secrete your salt, and gain the carpenter’s thumb, blood oozing.
Your old man is watching you now. He is instructing you how to hold
the hammer, the drill, the saw, the screwdriver, even the brush.
Listen. He will show you how to build the white walls of the kingdom.