4.19.2008

Celebrating National Poetry Month: #19

photo by Jared Nixon, flickr

The Swingset
Wood rots,
ropes fray,
metal rusts,
memories stay.
It stands there
deserted in the midst
of many times climbed
and swung from
Sometimes it was a ship
escaping from the storm.
Other times, many times,
it was the Saab convertible a friend and I
drove to McDonald's.
Now years of playing cease.
It's just the goal for flashlight tag,
where people sulk after losing
or preen after winning.
At times I want to shed
my childhood,
but somehow I can't cart it away
to the dump, where
swingsets are shredded, where
times past
can't ever
return.
-Grace Walton

2 comments:

  1. Oh, that brings back such memories to me. Our back-garden swing-set was a wonderful surprise gift to the whole family one Christmas, and we all got so much fun from it, but none more than my mother, who took any opportunity she could to go and have five minutes of blissful swinging at the end of her garden.

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  2. I loved the poem and what it reminded me of also.

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