She fetches me a stick, then sports it
out of reach. I watch the shadow
of her leaps
as sun leaves purple splotches under pines.
She brings a tennis ball. I throw
it away, she prances it back. I refuse
to taste its history of serves and volleys;
tight-sprung strings; its flights.
She shares her panting, dog-words
I only partly understand.
But I know the peculiar amber focus
of her eyes.
Without a calendar, her tongue exults
in equinox. This new
spring morning, her gift is dances
on the tilt of earth.
This poem first appeared in Hidden Oak.
Used here with the author’s permission.