The Low Branches

The glider is bright orange,

caught in the sycamore's sleeve.

My nephew is small and waiting.

He thinks I can just go up.

I put my hand on the trunk.

The bark is coming off in flakes

like the wallpaper in the house

where we lived before the fire.

I tried to lift my left leg

and felt the joint go hot.

It was a door hinge

that hasn't been oiled in years.

The first branch is five feet up.

It might as well be the moon.

I have to tell him to wait

for the wind to do the work.