By the window, from my desk, I gaze with eye transfixed on memories, delightful images of old dance in my mind.
The garden, and the rose beds full of weeds, come to life as I recall children laughing at play and dopgs barking at unthrown sticks.
The old tree, at the center of the yard, stands alone. A wooden swing dangles, neglected. The swing now old and cracked, reveales chipped and peeling paint.
The child, the child, whre is she now? The old wooden swings waits.
A solitary visitor came one gray September day, then left, the child followed.
Tangled memories. The garden is silent, for the earth now holds the child.
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