My heart dreams it swims a river
in a land of gardens
graced with moss-draped oaks,
magnolias, jasmine,
Cherokee roses, Calla lilies,
and you.
A land of prophets,
prophetic poetic flow whipped
into their backs by shunning,
the blood drizzles down,
drops mix with Jesus' tears,
Samsons, Hannibals, Esthers and
Sojourners leap from rusting shackles
on the climbing arc of Apollo.
Nothing holds them down
unless they let it.
Rise on marsh mist and walk as dead
to ones blinded by pride,
yet the risen live, robust and hot-blooded,
singing "Swing Low" they learn word
under cover then jitter out the bug,
wring out the grooves of pain with
hustle of jazz and blues,
preach get thee behind to hellspawn
that slither in darkness,
scat healing to the bound.
They soar in time as eagles.
My heart hopes it flies with one,
as I, the wheel, spin out.
