by Mark Shoenfield
On a warm June evening in my 54th year
my 16-year-old son asks me to hit him fungos
my diminished prowess clearly states
who is the coach and who is the player
I hit rainbow fly balls to his left and right
he sprints lithely, with grace, speed and
determination after the cowhide spheres
arcing to earth
sweat glistens on his brow and mine
I see the present and past collide in
intergenerational confusion
vicariously reliving the simple uncluttered
pleasure of pure pursuit
to test one’s physical limits against time and space
I loft one hope and challenge after another
into the twilight
and my son gives his all in the chase
he is not consciously aware of the metaphors
of this exchange
my inner delight is immense in this physical
give-and-take
the baseball tossed from my hand to bat to sky
to be snared in his glove and thrown back to me
the pattern repeated over and over
caught up in this rhythmic dance,
wishing time would pause in this magic moment
of ordinariness
I humbly acknowledge that life doesn’t get any sweeter than this