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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