Swing Low Revised

The following poem is a revision of a post that I wrote a few days ago about my grandfather. I took the narrative of a memory of sitting on the swing with him and turned it into a poem. Here's the final product.

Tiptoeing across the acorns
Crunching beneath my feet
He waits for me
And the time that we will spend

Feet dangle
Toes stretching for the ground
His reach
Mine don’t

Tucked into the crook of his arm
Nestled in the security

Slow and steady
He sets the cadence
Of a rocking swing
Back and forth

Sharing stories
His and mine

Words turn to music
Swing Low
Sweet Chariot
Coming forth
carry me

Depth of character
Smooth sounds
Shared with me