Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game,
the heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows,
a softball between
the eyes guides
But before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake
into a sliding man
furious for home.
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Their sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always unites
gone to wildness
slow embrace of
entangling legs and
light between the
and shadows shall win the day.
rare trail lovers.
allowed to some
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
That wild sweetness is a stolen base,
That the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning soft hands can know.
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)