Where there are rivers and children,
there will be rope swings.
No video game can equal
the thrill of hopping off a rock
gripping thick rope in both hands
arcing like a low-flying raptor
out over green water,
the hooting, the splash
the sudden chill.
Years later, the river
keeps flowing green
the rock unchanged.
Kids grown and gone,
strands of frayed rope
catch the breeze.
I wonder if they hold
any trace of days
barely remembered
but dear as a crumbling dried bouquet
once thrown by an excited bride
as she smiled and smiled and smiled.
