The Swing

.
Every year from early May to the harvest moon
I’m back and forth behind my Deere.  I steer
across the crabgrass field I call our lawn

I do it once a week if we’ve had monsoon
If it’s dry as a bone I get a week-or-so reprieve, but
every time my mower sings I face the swing

The swing’s a wood slab on a nylon rope
hung on a high birch branch over a side yard slope
–the slope is smooth and slight
the rope is blue and white

Underneath, a spot once brown and bare
was scuffed by feet that grazed it there
from year to year to year to year

Small feet swung and scuffed it there
from year to year to year to year

Now the grass beneath the swing’s
a pretty, plush, and poignant green

……………………
Jim Culleny; August 2007

……………………..

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