Across the park a child sprints
To empty swings. Her mother,
Lifting the rubber seat, glances
beneath to check for rain water.

I watch the clouds. White sails,
Traversing cerulean skies, halt
As if waiting on a windless sea.

She's swinging, her golden hair
Unfurling behind on every rise,
And with each return sweeping
Into her face like sunlit curtains.

Gone, the sails! By the horizon,
A darkened armada approaches.
It seems to freeze when I watch.

I don't wanna go home! Mother
Listens as the child's cry echoes.
I wonder, How long before she's
Like me – too old for the swings?