It didn’t snow much here this winter. But today I ran across this piece I wrote in 2015 when the snow fell long and deep.
So then I came to the playground.
Well, it’s not a playground exactly.
It’s just a set of swings. Fine, sturdy
wooden ones hung from hooked rods
on a high metal frame, well-built,
and sitting there in the woods
by one of the few shelters,
half way between the parking lot
and the forest-edged ponds.
Just looking at them, you could tell
they wanted to be in motion.
It was all I could do not give them a push.
But something held me back. Maybe
it was the silence. Maybe it was the snow.
So I just stood there, listening, and I swear
I heard joyful shrieks and the laughter
of children, and that whining sound
that swings sing.
Places hold their songs and sing them
long after the singers have disappeared.
And here were these swings, full of motion,
even in their stillness, playing memories
through their long winter wait.