follow through

Congratulations on every endeavor, graduation, anniversary--lots going on and lots left to come. I'm writing screenplay leads, like always not-yet-for-prime-time, but having fun with some prompts, as you can find on recent lost menagerie posts.

Today's, though, is a sonnet to celebrate sport and the blessings that come with every earnest attempt:

a planet spins like a perfect basketball shot,

comets like curveballs, black holes like gamblers

gathering a stray win. More often than not,

our efforts rim out, get hit, sell short, ramblers

we are of fortunes and art. I stare at the moon,

which only reflects what my eyes cannot gaze,

and wonder what faces will phase out too soon,

from championship nights to drawing board days.

More often than not, we pitch where we’ve been,

how we’ve rebounded, and ventures we’ll bid;

the owls in our dreams swoop toward us again,

searching for tidbits that banquets forbid,

   and round and about our little life goes,

   missing some makes and smiling at woes.