What was left was
the torn rubber
and the tasseled string
from the tire swing.
The swing which
used to hang from the now limbering oak tree,
whose leaves are unseen and branches
are broken.
Now, is too frail to hold
the remaining pink ribbon that held together
the bristling twill rope.
The rusted boat sits upon
the overgrown pond which now
holds a stench from decomposing fish
and the bubbles of algae
that seem to pop in slow motion.
One end of the boat is submerged in the depths
of the swamp and the other end
holds the molded over lifevest
left behind, now collecting a forest of moss
like the north side of a tree
under the seat.
One look to the left,
waiting to see your blond hair catch the light
only to catch a glimpse of the shadows
tickle the sides of the trees.
The screech of the crow echoes
above the forgotten pond
now overgrown by the inch
of dead, dried twigs.