The Swing of Things | Carlyle R. Phelps

The Swing of Things:

Where do I begin “getting back in the swing of things”?
Do I start with haymakers laying out evil in a paper ring?
Maybe grand-slamming imagination to nose-bleed seating?
Standing up to dragons without fear of fleeing?

I can barely lift my pen, let alone swing a tree or beam;
Throwing hands when I can’t even hold a dream?
Truth is a bit heavy in unpracticed hands, it seems.
Maybe, with subtlety, I’ma tiny needle threading seams.

Weaving in and out of a latticed social fabric—
Despair hinged hope, fraying at modern rubric—
Trying to use a new patch on an old cotton diptych.
Steady me, O Lord, that this needle may be veristic.

“I am the sinner and an unprofitable servant,”
This confession ought precede any form of movement—
“In mercy, come near,” solemnly, you remnant
To the alter, where grace imbues the sacrament.

There is not a more subtle or grand swing
Than bowing where end marries beginning.

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