From the sky-climbing pine, I swung on a tire.
Spinning like a centrifuge, I braced my body
against the finale as I unraveled, spun blind.

Screaming years of slamming doors drew the blind
on white petticoats and pull-string dolls.  I tire
of incoherent murmurs of adults, as would anybody.

I wander into the woods in search of somebody
playing hide-and-seek behind the evergreens.  A blind
turn takes me back to that frayed rope and tire.

Though my body may tire, I could never be blind to those years.

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