Come down to the backyard, where the old tire swing
Hangs in the tree, where I used to swing until my yellow
Dress flew up in a billowing cloud. On the ground, one shoe.

The grass was green, then, and my other shoe
Was wedged in the fork of the plum tree, where the green plums still swing
Ripening into succulence, handfuls of golden yellow

But the yard-grass is yellow
And crackles lately beneath my shoe
The ropes fray on the swing.

Come, swing with me, you in your yellow boots and I in my one shoe.