Catch
by William Hauk
June 6, 2007
My son throws me the ball
And I throw it back.
There are no sounds but the birds
And he slap of ball on glove.
He's getting stronger, and his pitch stings my palm.
Someday he'll be a dad and play this game.
In the field behind him I can see
A procession of children coming in single file
from the edge of the woods.
Their faces are obscured, but as a cloud passes
They're illuminated one by one
As I pass into shadow.
About the author:
I'm a carpenter in Midcoast Maine, and an English major.
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