The oddity of a football floating up to me as I ponder on the dock of the bay is a sign. I can't ignore the idea the universe is continuously sending clues for us to pay attention to directions, truths, choices, and messages from the spirits.
When each day is the same as the next, it's because people fail to recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that the sun rises.
He Played Football Once, #76
Fate leads me to the dead-end
of Fern Street. I am drawn to the
morning sun as it glistens off the bay;
I climb the wood railing and sit.
Oddly, a football floats towards
me and remains as my buddy,
bobbing back and forth causing a tiny
wake inside me, whispering some lyrical music
docked on the lacing of its play.
of tactics, of patience,
of teamwork, of challenge,
of water left under a bridge,
of death, of life, of forgiveness,
of change. The ripples leave one answer,
nothing remains the same.
I feel the sun on my shoulders,
my breath filled with summer salt,
the warmth comforts my heart;
I bow my head and thank Sunday
for blessing me with chance.
There is something solid about the
wood railing my hands grasp,
the black undercurrent of life
which can leave a paralyzed pain,
the peace of seeing what was,
feeling what cannot be seen,
and the freedom of white seagull wings.
The ominous brown football still dances,
for what seems like hours, misplaced in water,
on the moving bay in front of me.
My father still lives in my veins, I internalize.
We say hello and exchange only what
the past can remember or a hand can hold.
I find patience for the next passing sign.