Yellow petaled cups wide as mouths,
black moons of dirt. Brother
and Sister, I miss those wind-worn
hours. We never believed
that if we swung high enough, we’d fly
above the swing set’s beams. No,
we hung our heads back, arched
our necks until a sky of daffodils
threatened to rain celestial dust on our cheeks.
Below, clouds like stepping stones.
How easily, then, the world
reversed. No need to try to sling
tether-free at the zenith of flight—upside
down, we were kites. We scanned
each line of the stamened sky.