sestina in the key of swingset

children are flying
they pull at the chains of the swing,
their voices crying
out, laughing, trying
to transcend from the sharp
daylight into worlds of their own construct. the creak

of the chains transports them as the kids creak
out hoarse chanteys, legs flying
and flailing. a sharp
ache assails me as i watch them swing.
there, at night, there i sat trying
(but failing) to stop crying.

and the crying
is not what made me weak. i had to creak
out the tears. my ducts were rusty. but trying
to remember the feeling of flying
with you by my side, on the other swing -
this gets me every time. the pain is poisonous and sharp

a sudden wash, a tired ache, sharp
and insistent, nothing more, or less. crying
will not make it stop. i come here to swing
when the children are gone, to hear the creak
of the chains, and to think of you. it's not flying
anymore, without you here trying

to fly too. but memory is sometimes trying
sharp
and clear, when forgetting would be a blessing. and flying
brings no freedom, only chains. i'm crying
with every part but my eyes. creak, creak.
the swing

sighs and moans. i could swing
for hours if the wind wasn't trying
to turn my edges blue but even the trees creak
and groan in the sharp
biting breeze. i'm sick of crying,
tired of flying

alone. the swing chains are sharp
with cold. and now i'm trying - i'm not crying
but this familiar creak no longer means flying.