A Swing

There is a swing hanging on a dead tree Every evening, a girl sits and plays Back and forth – from a rear window I see The swing takes her one step closer to the sky And brings her back to the ground in glee The grass under her feet is verdant Her shadow always late, pursuing in vain The lace of her hair – her will adamant The shadow is a guide albeit a little eager Like Virgil searching for his Dante, Why had time so swift flow? Night is near and the tree like I recall Green and abundant – covers eve’s glow The girl swinging higher and higher to the sky Until she is called to sit under my window.