It’s a haven for children, a herald for free spirits,
liability for schools, and consternation for parents.
The boards that creak are where hornets nest.
Splinters become thistles, searing slides as sheen mountains.
The peak tower was our castle, wood chips the lava.
Rope burns were earned on exaggerated nets
capturing dragons and mermaids.
Nails were hidden, occasionally buried under mulch,
awaiting some young sole to pierce through its burrow.
There were secrets to be shared and war cries to be yelled
on these mammoth playthings.
Decaying lumber buzzing with life;
now they remain lost in plastic tar pits and phantom memories.