Sitting on a Swing Set

Sitting on a swing set, reawakened storm clouds growl as I stare at their slumbering cemetery, once peaceably retreating in the face of losing heaven’s hidden war; I stopped and now again they mass for battle; They reject my respite and seethe—I don’t know why I sit—it rests on a path to somewhere, though nowhere I cared to go. I remember a long-forsaken memory swinging so now I try again: up and down, to and fro, Duck and goose, round and round; nausea twists my stomach and so I stop. Strange, I don’t remember that… Then breaks the brooding; her laughter, that bounding child, she jumps on next to me and flies. Her delighted screams ring higher—lower—higher yet again; yet higher still, the snarling gaze of storms above softens at their proper ward, wind batting both hair and dress about; but it’s all clouds for me—it’s I who don’t belong. As I leave, the tired swing stills, ceases, and both we, the clouds and I, both we remember fairer times of suns and flying swing sets.