When the river, laughing pearl-white, tumbles down the 
    stairs of the rapids without breaking its bones,
when earth waking from its dream plays a terrifying kettle 
    drum solo,
when the green saltshaker of spring sprinkles the trees,
when our great-great grandparents rise from their sleep to 
    stand arms around each other in the open doorway,
when the towns revert to their childhood streets,
when none of the birds' nests have fallen in the storm,
when the river carries arks of ice, barns of ice, mountain 
    ranges of ice,
when the river becomes a railroad for the Great Northern 
    freight-train of ice,
then something in me leaps from bed to look out
and see my life rushing free between its shores,
nothing stuck in my rapids,
nothing hung up on my falls,
nothing muting the clear-running music
I hear splash and foam.