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?