Backyard swing
late golden light,
summer’s careless breeze.
Squeak, squeak.  I look up
at source of sound.
Iron hinges in need of oil.
I recall a summer
bungalow, grandma baking
a fresh huckleberry pie,
and I, downhill on a two-
sided glider, friend across
from me.  We press our feet
against wooden slats, pushing
from our respective sides.
We listen, and hear,
squeak, squeak.


Written for We Write Poems/Kick off shoes and socks and recall

About purplepeninportland

I am a freelance poet, born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. I live with my husband, John, and two charming rescue dogs–Marion Miller and Murphy. We spent eight lovely years in Portland, OR, but are now back in New York. My goal is to create and share poetry with others who write, or simply enjoy reading poetry. I hope to touch a nerve in you, and feel your sparks as well.
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2 Responses to Gliders

  1. How did I miss yours here? I remember those gliders on the hill near the railroad trestle. We had always striven for airborne! A great memory, Sara.


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