Poetry
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The Swing

A small wind cools the heat of Memorial Day
A blanket of clouds lingers overhead
The swing on the porch doesnít creak
It sits solemnly still
Silent
A stocking cap and a jacket
Protection from the chill of the near June afternoon
Her expression doesnít change
She sits not because she enjoys the silence
But because thereís nothing else to do
She will occupy the double swing forever
Alone
Eighty seven years old
She brought ten children into the world
Sheís seen one go out
Not that she remembers
Not that she remembers anything
Or anyone
Swinging
Occasionally a visitor
But who is it
Itís an uncomfortable thing talking with someone
Whom you should know well
But canít remember at all
And so alone she sits and swings
Swinging, swinging
Swinging