The Woman at the Swings
by Al Gabor

I don't know the name
of the woman
pushing her son
on the swing,
but in spring
she wore her hair long.
Her boy sings

as my daughter makes patterns on the grass
with the shells she collects in a purse;
She is saving up to buy the sea
and all the starfish it contains.

The woman adjusts
the knotted scarf
covering the pink
of her scalp.

Bees browse
among juice boxes and orange peels,
ignoring the morning glories
clinging to the fence.

The boy sings
about an old man snoring
as the swing rises
and drops.

All my words
and not a single one to offer her.
So I stare at the shells in the grass,
my daughter's sunlit hair lifting in the wind
the blue veins under her skin;
then follow the flight of a bee
past the silent trumpets of the morning glories
to the yellow-tongued flowers
and red-skinned berries of a nightshade.