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THE GOLDEN BALL
It is a game,
To throw the golden ball,
To tame wild winds that loft
The sphere, first there,
Then here; predict the spot
Where the parabola
Might kiss the earth
And make the catch
And make the toss again.
You two, the ball and you,
So make erratic trail,
Take joy in instability,
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In fear to fail,
The panic of a drop
That could make life stop
Puts daggers in your bones.
There is no security.
The terrain grabs your feet,
The white sun blinds your eyes,
But throw you must,
Run you must
Catch you must.
He who stops, holds the ball,
Dies.
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