Swing Low

11 Jul, 2026

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Deep black oak leaves
shiver
among early shadows.

Does the blackbird know?

Softly,
her sweet song soothes
and covers
the restless night.

Muzzled

That the wind would sweep me up,
that with arms wide I’d embrace it
and soar over this wretched waste,
I dream.

Yet,
I am dirt,
not
clouds.

Shall I walk this way at all?
No,
I dream,
lest,
I stoop into a crawl …

oh LORD …