[seemoreglass48]: 636.Poetry.Swing

Another poem for CW. This was the prompt where we were supposed to use a concrete image as a metaphor for how we go about life. It doesn't have a title, but suggestions are fine.

I stretch my toes
    (long and sticking
     out of black flip-flops)
to try and touch the tree
swaying in front of me.

For a brief second I can
    almost reach
but stop short.

On the swing my body
is in a frequent
free
   fall
until, filled with j e r k s
and u n eve n moments,
I am caught
by the black rubber seat,
only to be   tossed
about once more.

Gripping the metal rings
between my fingers
    (until rust rubs onto my
     strong hands)
the wind flaps over me and I
can finally touch that precious
branch—painted with leaves
of spring—with my childish
tip-toes.