The Tree Swing

Above the ground
Not very far
The swing reaches
Two long arms
High above
To the first strong branch
But can climb no higher

Until the child comes
In the twilight
As the sun hangs
To leave entirely
Painting the clouds
Rose and gold

The child sits
But not to stay
Quietly in one place
Hands grasp, holding
The swing’s long arms
Feet stir, scraping
Earth as
The child swings

Up to the rose and gold west
Back through the brown earth
Feet kiss the ground in passing
Back up to the ever darkening east
The child swings

Back and forth

And the swing shouts
For the joy
Of its long arms
Swinging, singing

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