Toward the end of winter I came upon
the Lord on a diamond, batting.
I said, “ Lord, what are you doing?”
“These are your sins,” he said,
as a shadowy figure on the mound
with a vicious arm pitched.
He had no instinct: swung at everything,
even dirtballs. And hit 'em every time.
He had a beautiful swing,
fluid, sure, and joyful.
He hit pitch after pitch, endlessly.
I lost myself, watching.
“Out of the park” he said, his eye
on a nasty looking knuckleball,
and swung like a dancer,
gracefully unwinding. Chock!
It rose up over the fence, over the trees,
released from all earthly bonds,
floating free until it disappeared,
infinitely gone, still rising.
He watched it go, as if
he'd never seen such a beautiful thing.
“I love this game,” he grinned,
and set for another pitch.
I think he was honestly
pleased with himself.
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