© Marcia J. Zeller
As a swallow sits in an old rotting tree,
Lovely and sad as a swallow should be,
The sun's all shining as he's basking.
All the long I'm there asking,
What is it that you see?
His wings not bent, but stretched to the extent;
With the wink of an eye, swallow, dear swallow begins to fly.
Over the moon and across the sky,
Up to where the angles sing their sweet lullaby.
Take my word for it, he whispered gaily,
I see God's magic daily.
There's an obscene amount of green,
So many colors to be seen,
But I alone just wallow,
As a swallow in this old rotting tree.