It calls me, still, that swing of my youth
when we lived in the house by the lake:
That marvelous, mystical magical rope
that climbed to heaven for pretend's sake.
'Twas a way to climb to the pirate ship
when as children we went raiding.
Or the way to the tower far above
or the best way to watch the sunset fading.
'Twas the winged way as Pegasus flew,
or a comet across the sky,
or simply a swing 'neath our old oak tree
where Dad would push me really high.
My only way up to the highest branches
where I could sit and write or read,
it was my rope of possibilities
that endless rope beneath the tree.
Especially the spring when I turned ten,
with bandaged eyes after the accident:
I didn't need my eyes to climb--
I knew where it was and where it went.
Then feeling the breeze across my face
I could see again in my mind's eye
and it made the days seem not so long
when I flew with the angels across the sky.
Six long months later, again I could see
scarlet leaves swirled as the rope and I danced.
For a while it was my only friend-
no one else gave the four-eyed kid a chance.
Time passed as it does and life settled down
and friends and I on the rope horsed around.
I left it and my youth when we moved away
yet I think on it often, as I am today.
For the child in me that hides inside
Still wants to swing, to fly so free.
All grown up now, grandmother to nine
Still, that swing of my youth, it calls me.
© Copyright 2009 Fyn (UN: fyndorian at Writing.Com).
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