I wanted from you to see a season
where each thing has taken shape,
where nests are in the past and everything
floats easily on its wings.
I imitated the sure independance
of the ever-thrusting backyard grass, the baseball
diamond hard and cracked like a smiling face.

And we fell apart, you and
I. I am spring-young and do not play
to win, yet. Between the plates
(here to home) a pair of sneakers have lost
their feet. The children grow
browner with each tide of laughter.
The get nowhere - not running the bases,
not even players, without want of rules
- these bare footed gigglers, hurlers of mud, howlers.

They return to the front steps without a score,
no one having lost a thing, and still, they have had
their mischief, thier rebellion, their secret glee.
Still their faces are dirty and their feet are bare,
their first trappings pulled off by the slick world.
Not sure what's been lost, you and me.