A swing hung
From the thickest branch
Betraying subtle breezes,
Walnut roots beneath it
Breaching crabgrass
Like some apathetic serpents
Swimming tides of yellow-green
In need of mowing.
The bristled rope
That held it there
Put splinters in my hands
At first,
The weather having gnawed
At weaker fibers of its braid.
But as it seasoned, so it seemed
To grow a little smoother
Year by year.
And kick by kick
Up higher when it swung
So I won’t need a push
Much longer,
But I’ll have you watch for now.
Tomorrow it’s not quite so strong,
Closer to the grass these days,
And splinters from the injured
Grain of its finished wooden seat
Draw just the slightest drop
Of blood.
So now it slowly falters
There–an epitaph, that little swing–
Smaller year by year
Until its wearied sway is but
An errant motion memorized
So perfectly its absence
Finds no second thought.

#Paris #France

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