Midair, Midlaugh, Midfall

There’s something holy in the arc—

a rise, a fall, a whispered spark.

The wind against my open face

feels like I’ve slipped back into grace.

My legs stretch long toward skyward blue,

the clouds applaud like they once knew

the girl I was, all limbs and light,

untouched by time, or sleep, or fright.

Each push rewinds a hidden reel,

the rusted chains, the creak I feel—

they sing of summers dusk and gold,

before the world grew tired and old.

I fly, I fall, I fly again,

the breathless laugh I thought was then

returns, a ghost of younger days

when joy was loud and life was play.

If I could bottle up this flight,

I’d keep it safe and sealed up tight—

a little jar for rainy skies,

when grown-up me forgets to rise.

The air smells like forgotten dreams,

like chalk and grass and sunlit beams.

The swing hums low, a lullaby,

and for a second—I don’t try.

I simply am. And that is all.

A girl midair, midlaugh, midfall.

No past to chase, no years to mend—

just wind, and sky, and time to spend.

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Author’s Note:

This piece was inspired by one of the few things that never fails to make me feel like a kid again—swinging. There’s something sacred about it: the wind, the rhythm, the weightlessness. Every time I reach that height, it’s like time folds, and I’m back in those endless summer evenings with nothing on my mind but how high I could go.

Now, as a mother, I hold on to these moments tighter. I want my daughter to find magic in the ordinary, to carry sparks of childhood joy even as the world tries to dim them. Nostalgia hits different these days—and I hope this poem brings back a piece of yours too.

If this poem brought a memory to mind or made you pause in the best way, feel free to leave a heart or a kind word. Every tip supports a stay-at-home mom pursuing her love for poetry—thank you for being here.