My grandson, Christian,
stands on the mound,
bent over, mitt behind his back,
hard ball in right hand.

Bases are loaded.
He eyes the runners
first and third,
looks to the catcher,
shakes his head no
to the first signal,
nods to the second.

It’s a full count, three balls,
two strikes, bottom of the ninth.
His team is one run ahead.
He checks the runners again,
as I look deep into his eye
see the universe, planets spinning,
stars convulsing, bursting, flaring up,
wishing only to exceed their boundaries,
gravity gathering galaxies,
and that elusive singularity
from which all things
emerge, me, his mother, him.

He stands erect now,
places the ball in the muzzle
of his glove, checks the runners,
then rears back as the ball,
rockets from his windmilling arm,
spinning like a young planet,
and the batter swings as the ball
bullets into the catcher’s mitt,
dust exploding from it,
like a the birth of a new star.