March 7, 2023

prizes

I see us, stepping up to that same old plate, aiming a worn bat to the stands, our plans
fixed to the playoff brackets and the gleam of a trophy that proves our excellence.
But let’s imagine there are no prizes, or that we've won them all already, and now 
we’re in it only for the feeling that washes over us, like warm summer rain or a phone call
from someone we haven’t talk to for years but whose voice sounds exactly like yesterday.
Let’s bathe in the soft glory of how ripe everything tastes when we're not angling 
for a better place in line, when our hands are on the wheel in that loose way 
we used to wear our hair as we took to the broad, green field when the bell rang 
for recess. Remember how the grass, untouched all morning, would moisten our ankles,
how we’d run through so uncarefully, until we were soaked all the way through?