The Echo

Swings, 1932, by Ethel Spowers. Gift of Rex Nan Kivell, 1953. Te Papa (1953-0003-326)

Winter has withered away

allowing for Spring to come

and embrace the days.

Sunbeams showering upon the plants

with the wind bending with the trees

in a unison dance.

A day like today is one 

that should not be wasted

and a walk on the trail begins 

when nature calls for an exploration. 

The trail is empty, looping around 

the forest floor.

Ribbons of light emerge through limbs 

as feathered friends soar.

Bending around the bend, I look

and what do I see?

A swing ah’ swinging with the breeze

ever so lonely awaiting

for me.

I make myself comfortable

gripping the chains

saddle of the swing hugging

onto my hips

ready to take me away.

I kick and it starts with a cradle

rocking back and forth

picking up the momentum

back forth

and in the midst of the touchy breeze

with the singing birds in the canopies

I hear an echo.

A quiet, faint, but strong echo

that reverberates from my soul.

Breaking barriers of space and time

as if a once lost and faded memory

is resurfacing taking hold.

The sound of a child's laughter

it became an echo.

Louder and louder it grows.

The purest sound a mortal 

would ever come to know.

It echos and echos.

This laughter comes from a child

who only views the world

as her playground and not 

for what it truly is.

She knows nothing about hate 

or politics

and only sees the outdoors as a fantasy

where this swing now becomes

a rocket ship.

“Higher, I want to go higher!”

It echos and echos.

The momentum carries me back

at the peak of the height

and then there’s the catch

where in that split millisecond

in between the rise and the fall

you become weightless

with the pocket of air you’re encased in

then you’re flying

the catch, then

you’re falling—

flying 

and 

falling 

flying

  and 

falling 

flying 

and 

falling

Hair and breeze caressing me

with the singing birds in the canopies

all the while, hearing an echo.

Louder and louder it grows.

The purest sound a mortal 

would ever come to know.

A five year old me laughing 

just as joyous as ever can be.

The momentum settles 

slowing down into a cradle

rocking back and forth

and the excitement dwindles

back forth

feet skim the ground causing

chips of mulch to skip and hop.

I break away from the swing

and the echo stops.

 

~

What has the world done to you

to turn a heart into stone

and blood so cold to the inner child

buried beneath your bones?

Still—even a heart o’ stone is permeable

to the inner child within’ your soul 

when one sees a swing ah’ swinging

with the wind alone.

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© Kelly Michelle Thomas. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.