Part I
The bright yellow swing on the swing set
moves on its own as if
an invisible person is swinging gently upon it.
"Just the wind," I scold myself, and yet,
it seems as though it is teasing me,
playfully beckoning, "Come out!"
But I remain behind the window, behind
my self-made wall. Duty of the self-educated.
Words and worries, sums and stories,
Tick-tock, tick-tock allegory.
Books are closed, I may play.
Placid treetops, wind has died.
Yet yellow swing still sways. "Come out!"
To swing or not to swing,
To breathe and remember the sound of my heart beat.
My fingers drum against the window, dull
dum ba dum ba dum
And I forsake her, thoughtful friend,
for I have growing up to do, you know;
the words and worries, sums and stories.
Tick-tock, tick-tock allegory.
Part II
Clouds like the stretched out cotton balls
that wiped away the princess pink from my little nails.
My imaginary friend must be aging, getting
feeble, for the faded yellow swing creaks
back and forth, inch by shrinking inch.
I taste the tingly promise of the changing seasons,
the words and worries, the sums and stories.
Tick-tock, tick-tock allegory.
But today, today with all the chores and changing
schedules in a fickle whirlwind, with all
the promises I've made myself...
What should I wish to do but swing?
Yes I am ready... but it is gone.
A ghost dances about me elusively. A single
wilted daisy, her forlorn grave marker.
My fingertips kiss the petal strings.
Slight silver crescent of a moon like
a sharp fingernail clipping...
sweet dream escapes are all drowned out
by the words and worries, sums and stories.
Cruel tick-tock, tick-tock allegory.
Part III
Reminiscing pulse. I take
my place on yellow swing once more.
But I'm too solid, she too faint. Her eyes
so sad yet accusing, bore into mine.
"You are gone."
Her voice, like nails on a chalkboard,
chills me. "But I am here!" I protest.
She shakes her head, more and more
dark and distant. "Here
but not returned, you're not.
You'll never be back again."
I wake from my reverie, reality dawning cold.
It's frightening for one so young as I
to be so young no more.
Yet a subtle knowing all along.
Shifting battlegrounds on the
inescapable outcome. I took too easily;
the words and worries, the sums and stories.
Tick-tock, tick-tock allegory.
Part IV
In a haze of sweet honesty, my eyes
like my mother's take in the fresh world.
Mud pies baking in their sun-rock oven, fish dinner
of pinecones roasting on a spit, stick-fashioned
weapons, pole and tarpaulin fort; breathing with
a pure belonging life all their own.
"Hold on." Mother's whisper tickles my ear.
My fingernails imprint my hands around
the ropes of the bright yellow swing.
I sail towards blue, laughing pure laughter.
And the pendulum motion begins.
Oh, and Happy Mum's Day! (;
