Today we know the other exists—
and like we know the other must die
we put it out of our minds.
Back then with each swing
and miss it was apparent I was not going
to hit the ball. Later I heard you were watching.
You were hoping you had done something,
made some contributions to a boy
playing in the field.
But sowing a seed is not watering,
nor the rain falling, nor the seasons turning
from one to the other.
It is not time outstretched but held
in your pocket, shoulders silent. Your back
leaving before the game is over.