Most mornings on my way to work,
when I’m almost late but not quite,           
I pass a white house with a black driveway.
There, a young son and father play:
catch, usually, across the whole length of the driveway,
grounders that bounce and spin, quick line drives,
or occasionally basketball, short jumpers and lay-ups.
Both son and father are slight but wiry, and when the air
nips with the imminence of winter, the son                             
dons a bright orange knit cap, its glow dotting
the darkness of the drive as he moves.            

If I am actually late, and they have finished playing,
the father waits with his arm around his son
until the school bus arrives.
 
When winter comes, with layers of ice
and dustings of snow and winds that pierce
all caps, orange or otherwise, the white house                   
with the black driveway hibernates and offers no reprieve     
from what wrecks the world—terror at a finish line,
twenty empty desks, a dark soul in a dark theater— 
so on these mornings I simply drive, shivering, 
and stare straight ahead.
 
But now, it is spring. The start of it, anyhow,
with brave buds that softly sneak onto branches
and a firm rush of rain to wash away winter’s refuse.
And this week, they appeared to me again,
the light of his cap catching my eye as I drove by.
 
They probably have a backyard, one laden
with soft grass, one that does not face a busy road.
But this father and son who find
the time to throw the ball each early morning
prefer the driveway.

So together, we are buoyed and carried
on the paths that we face each day. 

© by Kristin Spooner.
Used with the author’s permission.