Swings

We used to sit,
slowly swaying on the swings, leaping,
latching onto the iron,
creaking and moaning as we swung, delicately,
delicately,
wondering if the stars and the moon would support our weight
up under the world.
Sometimes I return there,
still and empty,
a particle of dust floating in the air,
suspended,
unmoving.
Static, and I hold my breath so it does not stir.
Moonlight sends the dust swirling away,
my voice is sucked right up into the still air.
And you smile,
and a part of me is
crickets
and bullfrogs,
and fresh-cut grass,
wet from two days' thunderstorms. And I wonder if you will be there
when the grass is cut tomorrow.