Yellow Swing

Ellie Johnson


Yellow swing.

Some would say

you are a smile,

only there if

the sun is warm.

Yet here you are.

A crocus flower, you

tremble and creak

in anticipation of the

Spring

you have waited for.

Sliding my hand over your

seat, it comes away speckled,

smelling of pine sap

glued to old sneakers.

Your chains are rows

of half-open lenses

that blink

as my pale hands

cover them.

You lend me your strength

and we fly as if

along the curve

of an anchor,

your seat as cold

as the wind roaring

in a waterfall

against my ears.

I clutch your peeling

green paint, the metal

that kneads into my palms

like they are flour

and dough.

I open a fist to stare

 at those red circles

where you once

had gifted me calluses.

My cheeks redden,

my body warms, and

all at once, I let go

of your links.

Your seat spins

and for a moment, you look

like a yellow butterfly

twisting its wings

against the blue sky.

 up

and until

up finally

Pushing settling

into your

chrysalis.

Waiting,

always waiting,

to open

for a friend.