Where I'm Bound
In spring a tide comes rolling in
In little rills of gold and green.
If I could see it from above—
From higher than I've ever been—
I know that I would see one wave
Of green, flooding the empty cove
Of the earth. I've felt it roil and break
Over the thickets with a froth
Of dogwood blossoms in its wake.
I know its coming by a streak
Of tiny flowers, April's wound,
A sudden quickening in the wreck
Of the woods, long before the sound
Of birds. It's then I'll stand my ground
In that green flood until I drown
There, where I'm rooted, waking, bound.
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