The sound of muck
Sticking to my boots as I back-track my way through a wood-covered path.
Decaying trees breaking at the trunk block my way
I clamber over delicately; land in the clearing of a park.
It’s still and unconscious and caged between an-
Out of practice-
Baseball diamond, and a frozen lake.
Ice is caked up the sides of it’s fragile dock and
Cracking electricity through the quiet chill.
A decade since I’ve stood here,
Cold sinking sharply into my skin-
Like the edge of a chilled metal can,
The monkey bars don’t like it either;
I can hear their sticky plastic casing squeak in protest
As I reach out to them.
I really like the sound in the poem, and the line breaks feel very natural when reading this. I can picture the old playground and when reading I can feel a sort of disappointment, the kind we all seem to feel when a place we were fond of in childhood doesn't live up to the memory. I like the use of the cold and ice and mud, as that seems like a complementary metaphor to that disappointment.
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