"Whispers from the Swing"
At the end of 1600 W.,
just down from our home
stands a huge cottonwood
with a myriad of gnarled branches,
both small and large, thin and fat,
hugging a field of alfalfa,
now covered in snow.
Dangling from a broken limb
high in the tree, two ropes
with a board for a seat
at the bottom droop
apologetically in the quietness
of the fleeting morning.
As the sun rise in the east,
the lopsided board seat whispers
joyful stories of children swinging
out and over the fence, now decrepit,
and into the sun while birds chirp
even higher up in the tree, thrilled
to watch the little ones swing
their legs in and out,
pushing higher and higher,
Maple Mountain looming large
in the distance with each up swing.
Perhaps, during the early days,
summer, fall, and maybe into winter,
the swing moved east to west
with dalliances and twists
north and south amid
gleeful shouts from children
and tentative glances from parents.
Today, though, the swing hangs
unobtrusively, the aged rope fraying
in so many places.
The sun-bleached seat
hangs limply, yet snugly
by two worn knots of rope
as the sun creeps higher
and higher in the sky,
illuminating memories
of contagious happiness and joy,
now lingering in the early morning air
before the sun gently melts them away,
At the end of 1600 W.,
just down from our home
stands a huge cottonwood
with a myriad of gnarled branches,
both small and large, thin and fat,
hugging a field of alfalfa,
now covered in snow.
Dangling from a broken limb
high in the tree, two ropes
with a board for a seat
at the bottom droop
apologetically in the quietness
of the fleeting morning.
As the sun rise in the east,
the lopsided board seat whispers
joyful stories of children swinging
out and over the fence, now decrepit,
and into the sun while birds chirp
even higher up in the tree, thrilled
to watch the little ones swing
their legs in and out,
pushing higher and higher,
Maple Mountain looming large
in the distance with each up swing.
Perhaps, during the early days,
summer, fall, and maybe into winter,
the swing moved east to west
with dalliances and twists
north and south amid
gleeful shouts from children
and tentative glances from parents.
Today, though, the swing hangs
unobtrusively, the aged rope fraying
in so many places.
The sun-bleached seat
hangs limply, yet snugly
by two worn knots of rope
as the sun creeps higher
and higher in the sky,
illuminating memories
of contagious happiness and joy,
now lingering in the early morning air
before the sun gently melts them away,
and they disappear forever.
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