Winter’s Swings

There is something so beautifully

Tragic

About a playground’s swings in winter.

I think it’s the emptiness

The potential joy

So un-used

In the darker

Months.

 

I wonder why,

No one wants to ride

In the sky

On a wet plank of wood,

Surrounded by chains

Potential’s conductors

I do.

I wonder why that is?

 

The ride is still a ride

Warm or cold,

The rush of air

Swimming up

Remains the same.

If anything,

Perhaps it is more precious

To fly in the sky

With the rain

 

To know the joy

Of riding

On the wings

Of

Winter’s swings