Memory of a swing in summer
Is altogether more than mind flickers
In this aging brain. The gulp of
Air, stomach twist, hair atwirl,
Sky reaching down to capture me
For the cloud cluster just beyond
My out-stretched toe.
The ride is part of me, while
I sit here watching little ones
discover that ancient thrill.
But will they on their sawdust track,
Resting on its creative modeled swing set,
Ever know a tree, a branch, scratchy rope,
Blue patched sky and clouds hanging
Just beyond the bravest toe?