Pressed to the Ground

by Dayle King Searle

Pressed to the ground like the

wild grass in the pasture

when blown down by the wind,

I lie amid my tears.

“Please, oh please, dear Father,”

I cry from swollen throat,

“It is too much for me,

I yield my will to thee.”

Pressed down by winds of strife

I lie, and yet stand my

tallest as I bow.