When I think of the old tree at the end of your garden,
I see the gnarled log beside it
(on which we would hop and jump
– who’s the leader, you’re it, I got you, that’s the rule)
I see the swings dangling above ground
(makeshift rope, rickety seats, threaded dreams
– laughs and squeals and raucous screams)
And I see the shades of green and yellow flying underfoot,
lake-black or blinding white when the glare hit our eyes.
When I passed the house yesterday,
I saw those golden tones rusted beneath weather-beaten iron
(on which we hung daisy chains, once
– sometimes sprigs of lavender or parsley peeped through)
I saw ivy-choked walls and the ‘for sale’ sign,
much more slick than the signs we used one summer
(for our 10 cent ‘cider’ that was just poorly crushed apple juice
– pulp and seeds still floating within)
And I saw the fruits of time’s ruthless passage,
flattening dynasties and empires and our homemade swing.
big log. Photo is my own.A response to @daily.prompt’s latest freewrite prompt,
As always, extraordinary freewrite. While I didn't grow up in that house, I didn't hang daisy chains on that fence or swing in that swing, I see it all very clearly.
I love this.
Where have you been? I hope you've been well.
Hi @owasco, so lovely to reconnect! Thank you so much for your kind comments. I've been dealing with some sad personal circumstances for the past while and hope to come back and be more consistent with my posts. 🙏💕
I'm sorry to hear that. May your sadnesses abate.
I did miss you, but there's no pressure from me to be consistent with posting!
❤️
Stunning. Plump with nostalgia and melancholy. Love the 'lake black' shadows and the final image of time blending with the apples - fruits decaying. Stunning.
Thank you, @riverflows! ❤️
She's one of my top favorite freewriters! Always stunning, a very good word for her work.