Absent so long from the mound,
can I even find the plate?
The ball feels strange in my aging hand.
The ump looks me over like I got nothin.’
I believe him by more than half.
I perceive the strike zone as
from a great distance receding.
It is small as a needle’s eye,
thin as onion skin,
surrounded by the vast
universe of possible balls:
high or low,
wide or inside.
Yet you have stepped into the box,
shouldering your bat —
a Louisville slugger,
Northern white ash — as if
on a dare,
or a memory
of long-ago days when we
rounded these bases
full tilt and willing
to hit away, to strike out,
to slide;
to risk.
We eye each other now
along this invisible line
that might connect us,
the question suspended
like a long fly ball:
Hey, batter, batter, hey:
Will you swing,
will you swing,
if I pitch well enough?
Meditatio Ephemera 
A great metaphor for so many relationships.
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Thanks, Russ. “Pitching woo” is a wonderful phrase, all the more for being so gently antiquated.
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