Swings MAG

September 29, 2011
By Edward Gong BRONZE, Saratoga, California
Edward Gong BRONZE, Saratoga, California
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

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?

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This article has 1 comment.

on Nov. 13 2011 at 6:49 pm
Sanjana Chetia BRONZE, Saratoga, California
2 articles 0 photos 5 comments
Nice poem!

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