The Last Board
His father built him a swing set
imagining dirty hands
on the sturdy chains,
worn tennis to the sky.
Laughter.
But a season has passed
with new buds
giving a reason to
his tears.
How does a boy
climb closer to his mother
when she is in heaven
and he has his foot
on the last board?
Patricia, your poem today is bittersweet. Is this somehow a personal experience?
I decided it was easier to comment back here.
Yeah, I don’t know what possessed me not to copy my poem first last night. Guess I got cocky with the snotty codes. Anyhow, I won’t do THAT again.
Karen,
Thanks for posting your comments here. Come anytime. This poem came from the sound of our neighbor’s children, laughing as they played today. I am afraid my own pain, week 6 suffering with shingle nerve pain, is tainting my view of what should be a happy experience of childhood.
Powerful as always… sorry to hear that you’re still dealing with troubles, though! :\ Does writing help get things out of your system?
Saw this on Twitter! Beautiful poem! Glad I stopped by.
This was a gripping poem. Thanks for sharing it!