A still lake's surface, inviting as a holiday hearth, rested in his eyes— framed by lenses so thick miracles held them up. Good sight of the world was traded for good sight of people.
Bat swung through golden light, ball thudding into leather mitt, belly laughs echoing through the dugout. Clouds of dirt veiled the losing score, yet winning smiles shone through.
Heavy heat bore down on harvest plenty, body burdened by bushels of wheat. "Good enough," he said. Good enough. "Good, enough"— this must've been his lord's call when his eyes saw their last golden ray.
A child, no more than a month past one, sits a stranger to the grief surrounding him.
Funeral forgotten, ground flies beneath young feet, racing after train tracks. The horn echoes behind him in his rescue.
Bob Dylan on the radio soothes his soul; generations connected unknowingly by song, only mother sees the thread.
The room's silence is filled by anger. His teammates' heads sprout from shame's garden; he must confront the gardener.
Aging, unaware of the looming shadow, the child's eyes begin to see. Shadows aren't much for conversation. But if this shadow could speak, I think I know what he'd say.