When I think of the old tree at the end of your garden, I see the gnarled log beside it (on which we would hop and jump – who’s the leader, you’re it, I got you, that’s the rule) I see the swings dangling above ground (makeshift rope, rickety seats, threaded dreams – laughs and squeals and raucous screams) And I see the shades of green and yellow flying underfoot, lake-black or blinding white when the glare hit our eyes.
When I passed the house yesterday, I saw those golden tones rusted beneath weather-beaten iron (on which we hung daisy chains, once – sometimes sprigs of lavender or parsley peeped through) I saw ivy-choked walls and the ‘for sale’ sign, much more slick than the signs we used one summer (for our 10 cent ‘cider’ that was just poorly crushed apple juice – pulp and seeds still floating within) And I saw the fruits of time’s ruthless passage, flattening dynasties and empires and our homemade swing.
A response to @daily.prompt’s latest freewrite prompt, big log. Photo is my own.