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.