treeswing7pp_w730_h887

What sights,

indeed,

are these,

that cause the racing clocks

to pant their minutes

in counterpoint

to a life still learning

the difference

between wretchedness and love?

{The swing goes up,

and the swing goes down,

and then goes up,

again. }

If you are on that race,

with childish yells and

up-down/mess-it-around

feelings

in the pit of your stomach …

They haven’t lowered

that coffin lid yet.

No – not yet.

 

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