Sacred Ground

I just love the way you swing
from the rope that hangs
above four initials
on the broad trunk
of the old willow
where we met.

I remember when we sat by the fire
quietly watching the rope swing
I kissed your pineapple lips
sipping their first colada
beneath the old willow
where we met.

Please never forget that evening
where the rope dangled alone
I couldn’t resist calling
missing your swinging
under the old willow
where we met.

So just don’t bring him to that rope
that hangs at just about our height
supporting our exact weight
swinging back and forth
from the old willow
where we met.

Because then it might snap
for us never to return
to that sacred rope
where we had swung
by the old willow
where we met.