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