The Swing

A poem for the seasons

A bit of rope

hoists dry wood,

an ark to sail through the seasons.

 

 

Dry plank kissed with snow,

you sit quietly awaiting the spring

when children will find you

and laughter abounds.

Until then, sit in the silver silence

of dusted snow,

wind caressing your gnarled wood

as you watch over wood pile beneath you.

 

 

Dizzying, the canopy of leaves sways above

as toes touch sky

leaving the ground

far below.

Sun glints off leaves

and filters the new breath of spring’s promise

as grubs burrow deeply

confessing dark secrets to succulent earth.

 

Wood warms to the syrup of summer sun

twisting through shady pine

the still air weighty in  

somnolent afternoon.

Pine needles blanket the scuff

where small feet have

leapt from earth,

trading fear for the promise of freedom .

 

Cold air bites and nips

as it pulls leaves desultorily

to ground around you.

Days shorten.

Wind sharpens.

Few attempt flight now.

 

A bit of rope

hoists dry wood,

an ark to sail through the seasons.

copyright/All rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2012

Reviews

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You brought a simple image to life..imaginative and serene..