Spring Beats

I just wrote this, sitting outside on our front portch. I took a crack at putting into practice some of the things I'm absorbing from Writing Down the Bones, and I'm a little surprised at the result:

Spring is the Philharmonic, blasting concerts at the vaulted ceilings of the world!

The granite bolder to my left rumbles deep bass blue, no less joyful than the Poplar arpeggios. It grips me, rips me right off my front porch. The music in my liver wants to explode along with the beat.

I will scream with the new grass!
I will rumble tumble drum beats with the marching ants.
I will warble wrong notes with the woodthrush, and we will laugh because that will make them the right ones.
I will let the flushing red destroy my cheeks, utterly wreck them in smiles.
I will shatter my windows and drink down the sunlight in great heaving gulps, like a sailor who stumbled into the first tavern of a new port.

The water wants in, wants to mimic the wind with its sighs and thrilling highs and after all who am I to say no to a lonely stream.
But, I will ask it to keep it down some,
So the blushing snowdrops in their lily white frocks have a chance to test their new found feet in a little tap dance of farewell to the sleet and snow.

There is something behind my not-mind that thinks,
"Yes, this is what we are here for.
To witness the rippling symphony of Spring,
and the thousand and one things that make each detail sharp and beautiful.
To dig around in the pit of our lungs and rip out a full throated

YES!

And wildly, childly, each in our own tongue,
Fling it at the treetops and hope it sticks there
Like a Kite.