There is a girl outside my window who swings when the sun goes down.
During the daylight hours, she is nowhere to be seen;
But the second the last beam of light retreats into the crevice the moon left behind,
She is there.

The wooden frame of the swing set creaks with every pump of her spindly legs;
The night wind gossiping through her hair leaves streaks of blue on her palms.
Back and forth sway her intentions
Until the rhythm becomes a benediction;
Until I know every word by heart.
And by the time my eyelids are heavy with the cool green light of dawn, the swing is empty
And she is not.


I will never say a word to her; I will never tell her that I know her secret.
I will never let on that I, too, have tried to race the night to the horizon,
Only I failed where she did not.
She will never let the sun play in her curls, just that blue night wind,
Whereas I cannot hide from the light
That will force me to see.