Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • The crisp blue leaved itself into the small garden
    as it ceased to be for a few hours
    In it was revealed a playground
    holding twenty rough and rowdy children,
    playing their games

    One end, etched in stone was the makings of a game
    Four rectangles surround a circle
    The ball it was intended for was
    lying in the bushels of flowers just beyond grasp of
    their short arms

    In the plastic fort opposite on the lot
    crammed young learners and old comforters.
    They gaped growing eyes across the great divide,
    in which lie an old half starved swing set,
    back and forth

    Iron at its hinges was rusted such hues of bright
    that the imagineers fancied it gold shining.
    A line of them ran behind it waiting
    Two filled it, and one walked in front,
    paying no heed

    Sitting in the plated seats, the boy could grasp flight as he propelled
    himself forward, leaning into the curve and taking a brief fast from Here
    Beams of warmth struck him through the overhang
    on each swing

    He was lost in his finding and his findings had long
    been forgotten by the time he might keep them.
    Again and again, wrapped in cyclical performance,
    thoughts danced before his eyes steeply
    fleet and brief

    Steps away, another boy grasped and ate a leaf!

    Distracted from his distractions, the swinger
    placed his gaze away from what was in front
    What came next was an inevitable brisk clunk,
    then a flop and a deafening silence. And all
    turned to one

    Feet found a place and for a gleaming second
    She lifted off the ground, recognition lying in wait
    as she flew, brisking Concord in her dreams
    and a boys feet playing true, lying truth and finally
    came the ground

    The girl picked herself up, hands grasping dust
    Dirt tracked the back of her baby blue dress
    She turned. Red fell in rows on her clothes
    It seeped into the folds, and traced her skin
    along with tears

    A woman rushed over. Another old comforter,
    worn from rags, ripe with sentiment.
    The red from one cloth to another spread,
    a paid price for the holding and
    hands clasp tight

    The world suddenly was audible to the boy
    As if the sparks that flew in his eyes
    had just released themselves from his custody
    and acutely took their mark to his mistake
    echoed her silence


    The ball, retrieved by some miracle
    skipped across the chalk lines,
    entertaining those who understood not.

    Dust once more was kicked from cushions.
    The plastic wobbled with the flow of happiness.
    And still rusted the swing, and still swung the boy.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.