My granddaughter
hurries ahead.
“This way, Granddad!”
She’s sitting in a black sling
—a swing— shouting
“Granddad!”
Is there any better demand
on my time than “Higher!
Higher!”
She’s a stunt pilot
headed for the heart
of a cloud,
and I’m the engines
firing her fearless
climb.
“Don’t kick
that cloud too hard, sweetheart,
it’ll bruise!”
She ignores me.
“Higher! Higher!
Higher!”
My arms tire–
as though I’ve been painting
a ceiling–
but I wouldn’t choose
to be anywhere
else.
“Higher!”
Finally my arms
sag at my sides,
as Ashlyn shouts,
“Watch out!
I’m landing,”
and glides lower and lower
towards the runway…
backwards!
She’s off racing
towards the slides.
“Hurry! Hurry!”
She looks back..
but one day
as she hurries off,
past the monkey bars—
towards college,
her own wedding,
glancing back,
will she ask,
“Where’s Granddad?”
I’m afraid I won’t be standing
on a cloud bank,
binoculars scanning
the wedding grounds
for signs of her.
But know, for now, Ashlyn,
each time I’m with you
my heart is a child
on a swing
kicking higher and higher
shouting over
and over “Again!
Again!”
