The Swing

An abandoned swing
hangs by a frayed rope
from the old, gray tree.

The wind whispers.
The swing sways.

No movement
without movement.

The wind whispers outside my window.
It whispers of cats and dogs and children laughing in the yard.

When I hear the wind,
I’m reminded of your voice.

When you held me tight,
I felt I could be gentle.

Despite their soft facade,
laughing children are the sharpest objects.
To hold one is to risk pain.
To risk pain is to risk hope,
but to hold life
without risking hope
is to risk never having loved
or been loved in return.

The wind whispers.
The swing sways.
Movement begets movement.

The Swing

Sock it to me

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