Swinging in the Park, Summer 2010
By zenjew
He insists, crying, pointing
To the swing beside him--
Our swinging is as easily rhythmic
As the first yellowed leaf,
Drifting, swaying,
Suspended
In the late afternoon sun
Before grazing the gravely cheek
Of a father too young.
Later, I follow behind him as he
Wobbles, skips, runs--
Breathing lightly
Turning quickly
Smiling into my eyes,
Forever busy—
He’s always been alive
We’ve always
Gone to the park—
And allow myself
The breath,
The tearful smile
that is already gone.
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