In a distant land,
on a forgotten Sunday,
a young apple tree stands
rooted in the ground to stay.

A child approaches the tree,
a jump rope in hand.
Determined as can be,
for a seat besides sand.

The rope is tied from a limb,
to a fence nearby.
A swing made by the whim
to soar into the sky.

Sitting on the taut twine,
the child cautiously rocks.
Then freely swings in time
to the swaying of the stalks.

Back and forth, up and down,
the child enjoys the feeling.
Defying the ground,
and reaching for the endless blue ceiling.

A sudden halt, breath caught.
Eyes open to find the dirt
and the rope no longer taut,
but swinging merrily at embarrassed hurt.

Stinging knees wiped with dirty hands,
wishing the pain could be erased
the child glances,
did anybody witness the disgrace?

Running away back inside
to find some time to mope,
then to put the failure aside,
while deserting the tree and rope.

Looking back I can now see,
the child made a mistake.
Instead of abandoning the tree,
she should of simply taken a break.

Then returned to try again,
and perhaps succeed.
I regret my retreating decision,
for that child was indeed me.