From a neat parcel, like garden lime,
you will blossom into the river.
You will settle here, and over you,
as over cupped hands, will flow waters
that wandered from cornfields
and trickled through forest moss.
Pike will glide by,
safe at last from your keen tackle.
The river will freeze and thaw,
but you will not change again.
At last you will travel to the ocean,
to the Aleutians and Zanzibar.
As we walk on the beach
you will wash our feet.
© Leonard Trawick
Used by permission