What can I do about the empty swing
Or the heartache I feel when others sing
The song she loved above all the rest
Or eat the custard pie she liked best
Or smell roses she planted one spring?
What do I do with the years to come
Which must now belong only to some
But not to her who I loved so much
Whose beauty I can no longer touch?
Whose goals and dreams are left undone?
How can I force all the world to see
Life’s fleetness and its fragility
That is the unique beauty of falling flake
Or the red shadows cast by day’s break
Happen but once in reality?
I can write songs for others to sing
About the miracles of each spring,
The soft surprise of a sudden rain,
Or rabbits playing along a lane.
But what do I do with that empty swing?
Marcia F. Alig, TCF Mercer Area Chapter
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