Through the white screen door,
Down broken steps of burned bark
A rusty swing set, red
Buried in Autumn.

Years passed since I sat,
In thick plastic seats
Now are weathered and cracked.

The vines of snakes
Hug the legs, winding and twisting.

Ripe
Sticky summer in-capsuled in growing memories
Of all the years I sat
And picked away at the berries.
At the end of the succulent days,
My fingers, stained
Red.