The Swing

Imagine me, descending clouds of grey,
The roaring of the wind has ceased at last
Resembling dawn, ascending summer's day,
It harshly pulls me back to my ship's mast
I yearn for more, to break the fragile skies,
Exhilaration satisfies my heart
“Too high! Too high!” the feathered blackbird cries,
I cannot hear, as through the leaves I dart
The tender wood beneath me sobs and sighs,
Then margins shatter and at last I'm free
As higher through the heavens I arise,
But down I plummet, near the willow tree
I sweep the ground, and leave the wooden seat,
Imagining the next time that we meet.