Down Swing

I’m too old to swing in the air,
let the wind blow my hair wild.
I have grown beyond childish things. 

Gravity-time has chained me here.
Now, I hold all of my  fears dear,
huddled in all my tears to  care.

This cheap pipe playground has rusted,
lasting just one trusted summer.
Childless, I’m not my mother’s peer.  

She exists all dead and tarnished,
a thing I can’t just varnish over,
I’m leftover, maladjusted.

I sit on this rusted backyard swing,
amidst flowers nearing spring’s bloom,
the north wind still a looming chill. 

I’m not keyed to summer evenings
not at all use to greeting spring.
I await the ridged things coming.