Split-Cloth Chair
No longer can I plant and mow;
My life is at its ebb and old.
I come into my unkempt garden,
And sigh in my split-cloth chair.
My thoughts and dreams fly above,
Above this trampled world,
Where having the same as everyone else
No longer is of any import.
Uneven breezes are unnoticed
As are silent singing birds.
My being rises, transported above
Where toil and worry lie below.
David, dear David sings his heaven-sent songs
And I long to understand, but I, not a warrior am.
My spirit lies back In my unkempt garden
Rising above his fights and foes.
Where he and I are both as one;
Loved by the same God above, while
I come into my unkempt garden,
And sigh in my split-cloth chair.
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