The Swing Set

Sitting on a plastic seat next to the glider,
Holding the chains that freed me to the sky,
I listened to the creaking
And grinding
Grate, crack
Creak, grind
Of metal on metal,
Shaking the bright red frame of the backyard swing set,
Writing my first poems
In songs that labored to rhyme.

As I moved higher and higher,
Closer each move to the upper branches
Of the pecan tree
(Could I touch the buds with my toes?),
I felt safe from critical eyes,
Writing words not graded,
The hands of Jesus
Pushing me from behind.