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For all my writerly friends who think poetry is dead, you have to read this story from today’s NY Times:
He wore a bright white tee and black pants,
walking my small self hand-in-hand
to the swings in the park.
We were in black-and-white.
I laughed and skipped,
using his arm as a trapeze.
He lifted me lightly under my arms
to hoist me onto the swing chair–
the old flat boards painted each summer.
He pushed me high into the trees
until I took over pumping my legs hard
to reach the cloud I had my eye on.
He grew smaller and smaller
as the swing released from its chains
flying me up into a dark starred vortex.