the swing – an old wooden plank and a bundle of rope
fraying, rotting, and yet, piled high with the weight of our childhood,
of the memories of swinging up
–high, and high, and higher
until we felt as though we were on top of the world,
our at least on top of our world,
which consisted of sand castles and kool-aid
in blue plastic cups
of cool summer nights, spent chasing dreams
and fireflies, which glowed yellow in our large, crystalline bell-jars
and taking them home to use as night-lights
to drive away the darkness and the demons,
falling asleep in our beds smelling of sweet summer and chlorine
and curling a thousand hopes and dreams
in the palms of our tiny hands