When I climb into the hammock and look up at the trees, it is as if I never left.

Gazing into the canopy of leaves, I catch a glimpse of forever in a moment. Past and present to not flow here. As I sit in the hammock, I am united with all that has ever been, for one never leaves the summer hammock, but is forever in its swing.

In the hammock, I am still that girl of thirteen telling her brother fairy tales from the top of her head late into the night.
I am that girl swinging gently in the breeze with her boyfriend.
I am the girl of last summer writing a silly poem about potato chips and I am the girl pretending the hammock is a boat sailing the high seas.
Or is that tomorrow?
Who knows, for the hammock knows no time.

Lost in the lazy rhythm, I am content swinging under the green leaves. In the sun or moon, at dawn or dusk, I am content; for it is all the same in the hammock.