One of my undergraduate degrees is essentially in poetry. I still occasionally write poems. Here’s one now. It came to me while biking to school this morning.
A Game, Remembered
Now let us praise small things:
spring cerulean sky;
Homer’s words about our star;
wind penetrating bone;
the ball’s unsettled arc, thrown by a small child, my son;
unworded sounds, delight, disappointment, fear, accomplishment;
another toss, a catch, a bounce, a drop;
a list’s connecting pattern;
a final line tying, summing, incomplete conclusion.