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.