The pattern of the chains
Imprints on the pads of
My hands as I cling tightly
To the swings.

My hair is taken by the wind.
I hear a song in my head.
I sway back and forth, my
Feet dry from the sand.

The moment is taken
Too soon.

No matter the years
That settle themselves
On my frame,
I will forever be a Child,
Pushed on the swings
By my Father.