It was a walk to the largest tree,
deep into the woods that ran along the brook,
where it shadowed the rocks that surely God had made,
just for sitting under it’s limbs, out of the sun.
Was the walk always this long, he wondered?
No, probably not, when play and mystery lay at the end,
not memories of  all that’s gone.
The sound of the water singing through the stones,
filling the pool cut through the shale,
was the same, but more so,
without the screaming of children swinging from the rope,
it seemed so much higher then.
Bobby swung the furthest, always…
He was the first to go, and not return.
And Lenny, god he could run,
before he sat in a chair for the rest of his life.
And what made Jimmy, who always swam,
“like a fish” we said,
place the hose in the window, start the car,
to die in his garage, alone, with a note,
a note that just said “goodbye, I’m sorry”?
And here I am, looking at the tree, once again,
where we all truly lived for the one and only time,
before the world found us.
But the tree still stood, almost waiting,
its roots deeper than my life.
I looked where the rope used to be,
could still see the worn ring around the bark,
and fondled the rope in my hand…
thinking maybe one last swing to the pool,
before one last swing.
The breeze whispered through its limbs,
And the shadows ran along the banks of the creek
where children used to play.
                                                     JC 2009