I am hypnotized by the sway

         of frayed yellow plastic ropes which hang

                   from a very high bough

                            of the biggest pine tree.

Ghost of the blue plastic

         seat from which I

                   and each of my kids

                            would swing. 

Their dad figures

         how to get the ropes up there,

                   some combination of a good throw

and catch and genius.  

My pride and contentment and excitement. 

Thin, and now, pale yellow,

         not Crayola yellow,  

a fifth the length they were then,

         their ragged ends

                                               way too high to reach. 

Remnants, strands

                                     separated still by ties

to the limb of the tree,

                                               never touch each other.

Their dad and I do not touch

                                                        anymore, do not twist

around each other

                                     and twirl as we unwind.

He is not here

         to see the sunset streak,

                   stream onto the rippling

                            water of the cove

                                     through waving strings.

These ropes, hopeful and sad.

         Perhaps like me they hold space for

                   grandchildren,                                                                                          

so show me they still sway

                                     just like a swing. 

These tattered remains,

         this hope, this grief. 

                   This peace in which my heart

                            can hurt, and hope, and heal.