Swing

me, on the swing

silent above the grass.

the high spring grass

with the dandelions.

you, on your knees, making

a path for yourself  for when you

grow old. So we can push you outside

and back inside.

I listen to your hands,  hammering away.

I’m sitting on the swing, I’m not swinging.

I stretch without stretching-

the sky ticks in April.

I’m no hourglass and no bell-jar.

I’m your daughter.

silent.