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
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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Thanks, Walt!
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