oft in the field from the day’s foes,
under the naked branch, she sat
upon the wooden seat, isolated;
moving in a curved arc, in flight,
without the intent of hitting the air,
she swung forth to find the fall of
night; she chanced to endure the
dole of darkness approaching.
that this little girl had heard each
night for fifty years, the din of
revel, high in the heavens, flying,
now came the light to lighten, her
soul to keep forever; the swing
no longer swaying, lifeless.
Copyright © 02/23/2013 Ðark Roasted Ƣoetry®