Analysis of Swinging

My childhood swing sits alone
weathered by age and heavy rain.
Weeds littered through the overgrowth,
it’s structure hunched and in pain.

I recall a time when
buttercups and clovers grew
as we swung with such ease
soaring like a bird, up
through the cerulean blue we dreamt of.
We fell softly on the mossy
grass, glistening with dewdrops.

Our yearning so bulletproof
that the shockwave through our
ankles from swinging too high
rendered nothing compared to our desire
to accompany the sun in the pool of azure.

If we were to swing with such limitless liberation
now, the frame would shatter
or simply resign to the ground in defeat.
We would lie among the weeds,
our ankles broken, weeping.

Not just for current failures,
but for the little girl who
swung so high that her shoes flew
and could see nothing but the sky,
illuminated by sunshine.