The center you spin around dances you Twirling and tumbling, the petal the seed the leaf, Golden, falling, giddy. So much is of softness; The plush coolness of the coreopsis, the spring of it, Gladly ridden by wind. How you are blown by it! Along the tarred railroad tie, the low cinder wall, You run between time. All that is real is the apple, The book, the twist of the dog’s curls in your fingers, What lies between one hand and what you have seen— And you are not afraid!