We all have our turn at bat.
All eyes on you, the pitcher
marks his attack, then uncoils
like a spring! And your swing
connects, sudden and sure,
sends your soul sailing deep
and fast into the unknown sleep.
You run a little ways ahead,
perhaps pause at first and look
back at us--but you cannot speak
nor can we clearly hear. Behind you
perhaps this year or several hence,
I'll step into the pitcher's glare,
my first time at the plate, too,
and with sweating palms
take my place to join you.
September 2019
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