Swinging

The constancy, the repetition:
that’s what I loved
about swings.

Always gliding
to the same place;
pushed by the same hands: flying,

but never against time.

Then up high again! -
to see the horizons a little clearer; then down! -
to feel your aging hands
against me,

the scent
of eternity brushed against my nose.

There was
laughter too, and I imagined
you smiling,
shining along with the setting sun.