Unmasked

Baseballs smack against leather gloves.  A man in a Phillies hat pushes a wheelbarrow down the path where a group of volunteers paints the new gazebo.  A woman rakes the mulch around the dogwood trees that were planted last year in honor of two athletes who died too young.  It’s getting dark, but there’s a gentle warmth to the air.

In the dugout, the boys chew heartily on bubblegum—watermelon, cinnamon, mint chocolate chip.  Impossibly large bubbles emerge from their lips and splatter on freckled faces.  The brothers of the pitcher whine in the bleachers—they want a snack, their DS, a drink.

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After the Storm

It’s not yet May and already some of my dandelions have gone to seed.  Maple trees are sprouting in my perennial bed.  Uncertainty hangs thick in the air as we wait for the predicted thunderstorm.  I cut away a handful of lilacs and dogwood blossoms before the wind can snatch them away and dash them to the sidewalk.  I want to preserve the spring; to hold onto the scent of lilacs through an open window. 

The storm comes and goes in a rush and my lilacs have survived and I have just enough time for a walk before dark.

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