The Swing

At four years old I was ready to roll
my swing hung down from an 8-foot pole
I rocked higher and higher too many to count
In my seat, there was nothing I could not surmount

By ten years old I gave the swing more love
My friends would come over and give me a shove
Flying high we would overcome our biggest fears
This special time together, to us, was so dear

By sixteen years old, the swing began to creak
I stopped playing each day; less than once every week
After a while, the swing’s importance became small
All work and no play, they said, keep your eye on the ball

Just last week my swing was taken down
What was once so dear to me had been hauled out of town
All this time, I’d lost sight of what I treasured
Soaring freely in my swing, my happiness can be measured

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