Daddy's porch swing,
old metronome of spring breezes
bears me back and forth
while it bears me back.
Grandma sat here
house dress lightly billowing
holding Daddy before he was Daddy,
bearing him back and forth.
If I push hard enough with my feet
against the porch
can I swing us only back
and never forth?
If we swung only back, ever backwards
where would we finally arrive?
Would they recognize me?
(I know they'd like you.)
Popping out amidst kinfolk,
like a meteor falling into a dream.
Maybe they'd scream.
Or maybe they'd cry out
in greeting and say to us,
"Look who's here! Really here!"
and "Is this the one
we've heard you dreaming of?"
