Don’t you wonder?
The story of this swing?
How long it’s been there?
How long it will be?
Did lovers sit here and declare their hearts?
Or a crying mother over the plight of a child?
Perhaps children ran screaming for the swing,
Hopping up on it’s seat.
Maybe the swing itself weeps,
Of being alone,
Beside the tree.
I wonder,
what story
this swing would tell
If wood, nails and twine
Could speak.
Perhaps I’ll take it as my task.
To tell the tale,
of an old wooden swing,
dangling from my tree.