Rope Swing

Taking hold of the moment

Beside the river, there is a rope swing,
Between water below and land above,
Silently it beckons hands to be wings,

As it hangs there, a worn and tattered thing
Passed and taken up by those who once strove
Beside the river.  There is a rope swing

Above the cold waters of a mountain spring.
O, to fly to that meandering rove—
It silently beckons hands to be wings.

Who knows where these waters the river brings,
Standing on shore, rooted, afraid to move.
Yet beside this river, there is a rope swing

That many will pass by without giving
A thought to what grasping the rope can prove.
Silently it beckons hands to be wings

By allowing the soul a chance to fling
Itself to the unknown depths of that cove
Of the river where there is a rope swing
Silently beckoning hands to be wings.