A baseball game
All the neighbourhood kids gathered in the yard
Laughing and shrieking as we jostled to reach the highest place on the bat
Then the voice of our father calling us in
” You don’t have to always be first, “he scolded.
“It’s only a game,” countered our mother.
And to us, ” You don’t have to be last either.”
Then they sent us out again
Not knowing where to stand
Allowed ourselves to be pushed to the back
Standing in the outfield
It wasn’t a game any longer.
Now I am old
First or last or in between
I know it doesn’t matter
I sit and watch leafy shadows play , a patch of sun
Which slides across the floor
Such is life
The truth hard-won
Then why be sad to find no meaning there
Only momentary beauty
The heart’s allotted share.