All The Many Swifts

We arrive over distant hills,
high and blessed home.
A million broken hearts of stone;
a community of all-alone.

We glide in wistfulness to see,
in winter's sky of spring-to-come,
a million armies on our side,
embracing fog inside their sun,

and arms become wings
to hold in hope.
A crack appears.
A new door swings.

Broken stones become a sea,
a lost-to-found community.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.