Hammock

Warm tangerine rays peak through the tree canopy

glistening in our golden-brown eyes like the sun on the lakeshore.

You were three on our first vacation here,

Mom told me to make sure you didn’t fall

as I swung you in that white woven hammock.

When you were five,

you thought it was cute to sneak up and flip me out.

Mom hid a chuckle as she told you to be nice.

When you were seven,

you would climb on top of me,

sending us off the hammock and into a tumble.

Now you’re nine,

and a gentle breeze sways us back and forth.

Our intertwined feet give us balance,

keeping us above the eternally damp woodchips

It feels just like yesterday,

when I would gently rock you under the canopy.

Forever I could lay with you in that white woven hammock

beneath the midyears sun and next to the rocky shore.

Oh, how we hate to part,

but when the sun reaches its peak again,

I’ll be back home,

and together we’ll swing

in that white woven hammock.