The Swing

by Steven Craig

The Box elder tree stood tall and green in the far corner of the yard. Its roots had kept solace upon the soil about its massive trunk, creating a little hill beneath its shade in the early September sun. Its limbs were covered with the course and mottled bark that rippled with a random pattern wherever the eye cared to look. Those limbs held out the mass of leaves that punctuated each twig, topped the crown and filled the deep gaps. The tree was quiet, firm, peaceful. Thus it came that a swing was gracefully chained to its strongest branch, and it too promised solace to the stranger that approached it. As a quiet shadow, a storm of stars and silences, he brought to the swing beneath the box elder tree his presence, his intent, his vision.

And he paused by the swing and took measure of the chains that restrained it in its place beneath the tree. He saw the strength of the swing, its grain and weathered markings. He reached out from his back pocket his right hand, and moved a finger tip toward the swing, touching it on its own outstretched arm, and beheld how effortlessly it moved to his touch, how precise was its gentle movement away from him and yielding, how purposely it swung back to his touch again. His eyes told him that this swing would hold him content, and would endure the challenge that every worthy swing must face as its true purpose in existence. He hesitated a moment, but the swing did not retreat. He turned and slowly retired upon it and felt its comfort. And then took up his paper and pen and wrote these words that captured the swing in his life forever.


Posted on 06/24/2006
Copyright © 2020 Steven Craig

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