My daughter called them “We goes.”
What a funny name.
“Up we go!” is what I said.
Swinging was the game.
It appears to have no structure.
Silly, you don’t know?
The object is to kick the sky,
The higher that you go.
Now comes the end and dismount.
Timing is so fine.
I ‘ll stop pushing and you’ll jump.
Now, the turn is mine.
I'm nobody! who are you? Are you nobody too, then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! they'd advertise you know. How dreary-to be somebody. How public-like a frog. To tell one's name-the livelong June, to an admiring bog. Poem by Emily Dickinson.
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It’s very cute, and sweet. Does the mother swing after the child? (I’m just not clear on that one thing)
Yes, that was the case. Thanks!
Nice post.
When I was a little boy, I used to ride on the swing
that vaulted so high I could see the blue sky blur.
Your poem brings back memories of my childhood.
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