Summer 1998 • Vol. XX No. 3/4 Poetry |

The Swing

TThe far light on the lawn, this humming in the grass swell out of the night the crickets first sing like the source of mid-summer before it begins with the hand on the small of the back swinging the child on the fresh cut plank hung from the maple, swish-ticking through green tunnels of air. Sweep and utter, sweep and utter what's now: it's the mood, the hour, the light, the day, the night the mother cannot hold back. Novitiates, the crickets are singing the present is the past is the present, the sum of our perpetual erasure, dust kicked up by the heel lightly brushing the ground. The crickets' singing is the gold rain of winged seed, a little rough, a little sweet, is what she hears, the mother swinging in the body of the child riding the miles of the leaves, backwards and forwards in the swell of mid-summer the moment before their faces are marked by leaf and light and an inkling of love and the origin of time.

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Out of Pocket

By Jan Richman

TThe far light on the lawn, this humming in the grass swell out of the night the crickets first sing like the source of mid-summer before it begins with the […]

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