Rope Swing Tryst

Myrtles have the fewest hurdles,

so Kraken armed, with gnarly curdles

to fly unwinding and quickly

from tight, large spun rope,

an airborne, whirling-eddy spirit,

present and alive with great hope.

—All summer long,

I have improved my swing,

and now I will try

my high rope circus fling,

while swinging, I’ll climb up one rung higher—

I have really thought it through,

all will admire.

—Off I go,

I am quickly spinning round,

right arm let go,

unforeseen gravity profound;

only one arm was to go,

but now it is two—

oh!—I am falling,

what should I do?

—That barbed wire river fence below

looks like my fateful target,

never so close to it even if I charged it—

landing on my left wrist,

now rolling stop;

this wooden fence post,

a scary block.

—Out of breath, and wrist seems loose,

run to mom for ice to reduce,

then head off to town

to mend my left broken wrist—

perhaps it is time to end this

youthful rope swing tryst.