I’ve planted my person
on many a seat,
but the best was there
on Summer Street.
Grandma’s porch
with swing for two,
where summer breezes
lazied through,
was where I learned
what sages know:
if I want to be quick
I must first be slow.
Back and forth,
I moved unmoving,
Grandma too,
our own kind of grooving.
Words fell away,
we floated as one;
I can still feel her housedress
all cottony spun.
The cricket sang softly,
far ice cream bells jingled
a summon to vespers
with leaf whispers mingled.
So today a swing sighting
is potently rife
with certainties given
to last all my life.
A Coke for the world
was a once wishful sing,
but I’d write new words
and wish it a swing.
Yet more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
for this wonderful portrait of invitation.
Oddments 