One Could do Worse Than to be A Swinger of Birches

While I love Robert Frost, I've never had a good visual for his poem Birches.

Until now.

We heard laughter, that laughter that comes from the bottom of a belly and bubbles exuberantly over lungs and out. We heard whooping, shrieking, but it was the laughter, that laughter that provokes smiles and then giggles even from the non-participating, that brought Todd and I to the window.

Todd had parked his pickup near the giant hemlock tree behind the house. Standing on the tailgate, the boys could just reach the lowest branch by stretching out their arms. Then holding on tightly, they would launch themselves into the air and the branch would deposit them gently on the ground.

"We should probably stop this," I looked at my grinning husband.

"Not yet," he said softly. "Not yet."

And I knew he was with them, swinging in the hemlock.

One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
--excerpt from Birches by Robert Frost