The Swing

The Swing

Chubby hands clutching the ropes.

“Higher! Higher,” she squeals.

Only clouds and sun and sweet wind

kiss her face.

No cares, no worries.

And nurturing hands push her upward.


More securely now, small hands on the ropes,

“Higher! Higher,” she screams.

Bows and ribbons and grass and tops of trees;

Innocence on her lips,

sweetness and life.

And protective hands push her onward.


Careless and dauntless she climbs now.

“Higher! Higher,” she demands.

The world at her fingertips and knowledge

a thing to be won.

Independence on her lips.

Still guiding hands push her forward.


Smoothly and effortlessly she soars.

“Higher! Higher,” she yells.

Ambiguous horizon and ambivalent sighs,

the climb ever necessary,

the tasks ever present.

There, gentle hands push her through.


Slowly and painfully she grasps the ropes,

“High enough. High enough,” she says.

Darkness and relief and calming storms

fill tired eyes.

A hush, a whisper, a breath.

Gently now, tender Hands bring her home.


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