If I could do a rite each day with leaves 
Newly green! The ones that pop from the limb!
If I could suck in the spring like a sweet milkshake
And break from the porch like a steed on wings
Each day:
swoop down the hill toward the creek
Where alabaster flowers thrust to light!

This must be the greatest scene—tulip and turnip
Alike resound. Swings rush fast; the clouds
Puff like gods. Paths’ browns
Seem brighter, even. Who choreographed this sun
To swing in all directions—so white,
So white?

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