W. D. Snodgrass(b. 1926)
Sonnet 7: "Here in the scuffled dust"
Here in the scuffled dust
is our ground of play.
I lift you on your swing and must
shove you away,
see you return again,
drive you off again, then
stand quiet till you come.
You, though you climb
higher, farther from me, longer,
will fall back to me stronger.
Bad penny, p e n d u l u m ,
you keep my constant time
to bob in blue July
where fat goldfinches fly
over the glittering, f e c u n d
reach of our growing lands.
O n c e more now, this second,
I hold you in my hands.