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?