once apon a time
in a land very close to home
a young girl sat and swayed low in the old swing on the street
its twisted rope gnarled and rubbed at her hands as she gripped it
swaying ever higher
higher towards were the tree had swallowed it up
growing all around and into the rope
so that is swung down like a golden necklace, discolored and thinning
angel incarnate a breathing trinket at its helm
the wind blowing off the dead heat of the setting sun
made her whip her head
and look up into the shelter of the tree
for many years it had stood there
swaying and spreading and thriving all for its own purpose
but today, it had given the last of its great strength
to the little rope swaying ow so gently
and to the little girl resting ow so peacefully
on that splintered board that snagged and bit at her legs
but the tree had grown weak
and the bugs and vines had leeched his strength from him long ago
and in the joyful peak of her swaying pivot
she reached level with the dieing branch
and with the last moaning crack of defeat
set it free from the tortured life it had lived