ode to the trite and true

My pops pushed me in the swing sometimes, there at the tree line of my childhood backyard. There's an occasion in particular he's never let me forget. If I mention my writing today, he'll ask if I remember, "That time I realized you were some kinda poet prodigy child," with an undivided sincerity that's worn my cringe down to a soft grin. What was my kindergarten revelation there at the tree line…