The wooden tiles stained with age
The platforms that were once our stage
Copper nameplates, once easily read—
Now where oxidation makes its bed.
The bucking bronco, once such fun,
It sags with age, can please no one.
The little pebbles have seen so much,
Laughing, crying, and all such.
The swings that brought us to new places—
And the tire swing, without enough spaces.
Our old boat! I remember!
We always, always dreaded December.
Hopes and dreams, sizes each,
As they were never out of reach.
Childhood’s innocence captured here—
Into my mem’ry did it sear.

Author’s Note: This is a poem about the memories of the playground at my old school. It was such a beautiful, magical place, and going there recently I’m shocked at how it’s aged.