Swinging in the Wind

The wind threatened to carry
off the porch swing, the one
with the names of long lost
lovers carved in the wooden
backrest, the one with the cushion
which used to be cheery and bright,
but is now drab and covered with
hair from the cat who sleeps there
in the sun on better days.
Yes, it blows in Boulder in the
late winter and early spring.
Even the most hardy of cyclists
stay home or go to the track,
tree branches tumble to the ground,
new windshields no longer look new.
The porch swing is still there, wedged
sideways and twisted, three out of
four chains still attached.
Somehow I find it comforting to
see such perseverance against
such an opponent, even if it is just
a wooden swing.