Like smashed baseballs they are almost circles
on our front lawn, 30 feet apart, beige exceptions 
to the flawless grass around our house.
Two, sometimes three, sometimes four times a day
my son and I play catch, our sneakers erasing green
into these bald spots as we toss back and forth. 
Eight year old Liam winds up and stings my glove
with a fast ball and talks of Randy Johnson but 
I see Sandy Koufax and, like inverted mounds,
the spots sink farther into the earth, beautiful
as my father's tool handles polished smooth 
by a life of hard work. We've thrown in rain,
we've thrown in darkness, once in March we 
put on gloves under our gloves and threw in snow 
and always to the soundtrack of our conversation, 
a father and son's seeds for a garden of love 
I pray will bloom all seasons. Today the Chem Lawn
man examines the twin blots marring the perfect green
and says, "Nothing will ever grow there"
and I want to answer, "You're wrong, Sir," 
as my son waits with his glove for another game 
of catch, his feet ready to root even deeper 
into our family ground.

© by Edwin Romond.
Used here with the author's permission.