Wednesday, February 3, 2010

the swing

there was a time
when my son would sit
on the swing for hours,
and i would push him,
higher, then higher,
feeling the small weight
of his back in the tips
of my fingers,
his small pink hands
curled tight around
the chains, he would
laugh as the sun fell
off behind the rows
and rows of so many
houses and very little
trees, there seemed to
be so much time, so many
days more just like that
in the warm summer,
hearing his voice calling
me to push, to push him
even harder before
darkness fell and a
chill set upon the air.

1 comment:

lgsbowen said...

This poem is one of those that again convinces me that you are on to something with what and how you write. If I were selecting poems to publish in a volume of your work, I would defintely include this one. This is so wonderful. I am going to keep hounding you until you get your work out there so others can read it and experience the same moment of surprising realization. The way you do that with so many of your poems is what keeps me coming back to read them -- all of them -- I don't want to miss anything.