We are
playing catch
          in the not too cold of January.
Between the throw and the catch
and the catch and the throw,
ribbons of light ride from ball to glove
          binding us.

It is in these moments
I feel the blood
          in my veins, 
being carried in that spinning sphere,
humming toward you,
racing, father to son on winter light,
connecting life in flicker and flash
          sun on leather.

I know
spring will find you in Colorado
          a further throw
than my aging arm could ever make,
so today I am content
to step outside and toss a baseball
back and forth
across our thirty feet of fallen leaves
here in Oklahoma
          keeping us who we are,
stitching Red River to the Rocky Mountains.