The Swing

The measured sawn board, sanded seat

parallel to the rise where the sappy roots dive

two ropes, worked through the holes,

knotted and plum.

My father pulls the swing, leans back over the edge of the world,

grasps the ropes with hands as scored as the inside of our wheelbarrow

the toes of his boots dig into the stubbled grass

behind the dirt patch launch.

Legs tucked, elbows bent,

a rocket ride promised to aim straight for the smiling sun,

the giddy countdown

and then

the push, as we move forward together

the rush of the under duck, my legs unfold

reach to the robin’s egg sky above the pine bough

back to the bursting forsythias

back to him.

.

About these ads

2 thoughts on “The Swing

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s