The swing
My Legs kicking toward the orange sky..." The scent of damp wood and twilight..."
The sun lowering, painting the sky with orange, pink, and purple, reflecting on the water, the silhouette of the tree, the ropes of the swing.
Rhythmic creaking of the rope, water lapping against the bank, birds settling down, silence/hush of evening.
I feel it’s texture of the rope or wood, breeze on my skin, the freedom of lifting off and dipping down, the cooling air.
The aroma of damp earth, willow trees, water weeds.
The old rope swing still hangs by the old hollow tree, its insides a refuge for Gods creatures..
The pond so still it is as a mirror, a black pool, a silver surface reflecting the sunset, "liquid light".
An anchor, a guardian, a silent watcher, gnarled oak, weeping willow.
As the swing comes to a stop, so does the sun setting on another day, its rays coveth the ground like a blanket of fire, my bare feet drag the ground as if saying goodbye, I slowly loosen my grasp of rope of the tree swing, bow my head to give thanks, Lord thank you for this old wooden tree swing my solace of Your undying grace…
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