Swing Set
the sun was fixed in the sky
like a fugitive in an orange jumpsuit
radiating anger.
the evergreen forest was shedding
to carpet the steeled winter
earth. pinecones and needles in
a mosaic of brown and green.
the swing set sat neglected
chains rusted, slack like
abandoned moorings.
it creaked under the stress
of your weight, unsure of itself.
its chains, yawning after years
of hibernation, start to sway,
back and forth, picking up
speed and confidence.
In a flash you’re off the
swing, gliding through thick,
wet air to land on your
hands and knees in the
mulch. The intractable wood
opens the soft flesh of your
palms. The strawberry red
blood glistens in the late
Sunday light.
A dog barks indifferently
at the sun as it sheds its
cumbersome bonds and
falls back into the earth.
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