Memories On Branches

An old board and a rope had made me a swing, Sitting there when I was around the age of nine, I curiously looked up to see the first sign of spring, Where a robin was building a nest of twigs entwined. Summer's heat burned my shoulders, so I sought shade, I climbed up into your strong arms at the age of fourteen, Along with a book, I relaxed in a solitude no one could invade, I found myself lost within the pages and the leaves of green. On a lazy, autumn afternoon, at the age of twenty-three, I raked the dead leaves that buried my feet into a pile, Through the orange limbs my black cat peered down at me, Then leapt from the tree to play among the leaves for awhile. Now, as I am rapidly approaching the age of thirty-one, Branches are encased in ice, as winter continues to unfold, From my window, I see the cardinals and the disappearing sun, Reminding me that life still survives in the bitter cold. March, 7th, 2014 Gail Angel Doyle's contest - "Memories On Branches"