At the Swings

Last night, I had a swing
As gentle as the breeze that rocked the baby on the tree top,
and sometimes hard enough to make the wee one scream.
Swinging as darkness descends,
and goosepimples crept up my arms,
the words flowed out in a steady stream.
Torrential at first,
before it calms.
But still with certain bursts along the bends
It seemed the tirade would never end ,
until my breaths came out in spurts ,
and my knuckles were white from holding tight.

( My feet scraped the sandy bottom)

The empty silence on my right greeted my landing.
There I stood , simply standing..
(or maybe hoping)