Swing: a poem

Odd as this summer weather is for late March, I'm not complaining. The complaints will happen--I'm sure--when I'm thrown into a rocky mountain winter where two feet of snow is not uncommon in April. Yet this glorious summer-esque day has me thinking about endless romps outside as a kid. More often than not, my brother and I were swinging until it got dark, or throwing hula hoops onto the garage roof in hopes that they would leap to the other side of the house. But it was those evenings on the swing where I felt like I had all the power in the world, like if I got close enough to the sky, I'd be able to view the world more clearly. So, in spirit of swinging summer nights, I wrote a poem:

Swing
Her toes thread through the summer air
like razor blades--
slicing into the crisp, blue sky.
Little legs pump
with the fierceness of determination.
The plastic picnic tables,
the children giggling over glimmering hopscotch stones
seem a far memory,
as she soars higher into the air.
She can almost touch the plane that roars between
the puffy, white clouds.
The rusty swing set rattles,
she pumps harder--
stopping for no one, nothing.
Grownups’ hushed voices
in the kitchen trail through
the sliding glass doors;
soft laughter and fresh batches
of gossip swirl through her ears.
The forbidden words  a sweet melody--
she smiles, warmth spreading across her pink cheeks.
Gripping the plastic handles tightly,
she yearns to slow down,
to race through the hopscotch track,
to chow down on the fresh platter of pineapple
her grandmother set out,
and to sneak in on her parents, surprise them
with a giant bear hug.
But she is soaring,
flying,
only her and the wind share a secret.
Her legs touch the edge of each new star
that glistens through the evening sky.  
Her pink flowered sundress
melds with the soft swirls in the sky.
Sunburned skin reaches the tippy top
of the swing set.
She laughs--a hearty chuckle for a small bundle of bones.
She is on top of the world.
She will never come down.