The Swing

A poem about a swing in my Grandparents front yard-Part of a series called Memories

The Swing

Waiting under an old oak tree, made of wood and rope
Waiting for the child that would bring it to life
The planks are worn and smooth from the constant use
Little toes dressed in red sneakers barely trace circles in the dust

Push off and swing with the fresh air on her face
Singing to herself about nothing in particular
Just flights of fancy in the outer space
A part of nature with no singular identity

Pigtails flying as her cape
Leaning back with toes pointed towards the clouds
Breathe in the scent of oak
Hear the cicadas sing their melody

Looking up, dizzying heights, floating along
Green leaves rustling, making a comforting song
Sunlight peeking through to stroke a warm hand
Caressing her face and making her smile