When we swung on a plank hung on rope,
overwhelmed with freedom, flying in an eclipse,
it felt like a cloud, our minds raving with imagination,
as we circled under the branch with growing leaves.
 
The leaves began to fall upon our heads,
as we circled on this wooden swing.
We erected piles of amber and gold,
only to break as we swung through the mound.
 
The storm that came and ruined the tree
killed the life with a blanket of ice.
No leaves grew back on that branch, and
the swing wouldn’t fly anymore. It just
 
collapsed beneath the ice, buried under leaves
rotting, choked by the rope it was hung by.
The leaves stuck to our shoes when we trotted back
to find a swing replaced by empty space.