Tree swing

February 14, 2014

Tree swing

A sturdy plank of wood, coarse-grained

but smooth to the touch. A thick rope wrapped

several times around a tree branch, twenty feet up,

two strands snaking down to loop through holes bored

in either side of the plank, knotted and tied up,

secured with a metal figure-eight.

I loved to shimmy up the rope,

inching up and up, past

the half-way mark where the two cords

twined together, up

until I could touch the rough oak bark.

You could have someone spin you, sitting,

and the cabled rope would twist and bunch up

until you were high off the ground, and then

they’d let go, the world spiraling into a kaleidoscope blur

as you sat tight curled up on the swing, and after, to prove

you weren’t dizzy, even when the world swam drunkenly

before your eyes, you would walk the edge

of the driveway, tightrope-style,

one foot at a time, perfectly straight.

Holding onto the back of the swing,
the grown-ups were strong enough

to run forward and push you over their heads,

sending you in long gliding strokes

back and forth. Once, my younger cousin

overwhelmed by the rush of exhilaration,

the height, the speed, let go.

           

                                    He flew

for one breathtaking,

heart-dropping moment,

his little body cutting all ties

to the ground, hurtling

through the air

like a stone

or satellite.