Throw

Throw

In the park, a child lifts a scarlet ball,
eyes bright, fingers flexing, the world a pause—
the arc begins, a lazy sigh of leather,
spinning like a whispered secret towards the sky.

It lands with a soft thump on the dew‑kissed grass,
a murmur of laughter rippling through the oaks,
while nearby, an old man flicks a worn‑out stone,
skipping it across the pond’s quiet mirror,
each plonk a punctuation in the afternoon’s hymn.

Across the street, a bowler hurls a red cherry,
the leather kissing the polished willow,
the crack echoing like distant thunder,
stumps shudder, bails fly—
a miniature war won in a breath.

Even thoughts are thrown,
tossed like confetti at a celebration,
ideas somersaulting, landing where they may,
some caught, some lost in the wind’s mischievous grasp.

So we throw—
with hope, with fury, with gentle care—
each release a small rebellion against gravity,
a reminder that to let go
is to invite the world to catch,
or to let it fall,
and still, to try again.