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
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.