He swings blithely.

Vitality, sunlight, and the curved

black vinyl warm

his cheeks, anointing

his flesh with the beaded blush

of youthful wonder. He is lifted

to the sky, suspended

for an immaculate moment

in a pocket of atmosphere and giggles

before gravity

pulls him back towards earth.

He soars over the world

and sees it with wide eyes.

The wind blows

his white-blonde hair heavenward,

tufting it about his head

like a halo of dandelion seeds,

engulfing him in a downy

cloud of hopes, wishes,

promises. He pulls

me with him,

his momentum infectious.

His knuckles are white

and tight as clenched teeth,

grasped around braided metal.

Soft palms stifle

the groans of rusted iron, fingers

pressed into the concavity of steel

loops. Overhead,

birds chirp, echoing

sounds of unadulterated freedom.

And with each oscillation,

the distance between our hearts

opens and closes,

opens and closes,

opens and closes.

He is a pendulum—

a poignant reminder

of life’s brevity.

And is it the wind, or time, or

my hand

that drives him forward,

into the intangible?

And when the motion

finally slows—just enough

for him to recollect my presence,

and reach out to me—

is it only my imagination,

or is the boy I lift

in my arms clinging

to me a little less tightly

than the one I put in

moments ago?

***