The swing under that old tree
is an autumn belonging still
a child thing hang for thrill
lonely, with no one to share its joy
...
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poem well presented The swing under that old tree is an autumn belonging still a child thing hang for thrill lonely, with no one to share its joy beautiful anne
Love the last one: Life is a certain possibility, everyone is a reflection of me, where have I been? It appeals to my inquisitiveness, wondering about the times that have already been. Great poem! Thank you for sharing. RoseAnn