umbra

Elizabeth Crowell

The boy hit the ball high,

beyond the diamond, swept and carved.

It soared into the muscled, windy air

onto the street, beneath a car.

And then we saw another boy

running in cleats, click-tap-click-tap,

scoop the ball and throw it home.

The players whistled and clapped.

A sudden, springtime wind

lit the field to dusty clouds.

The boys bowed, hands on their caps,

until the field settled back down.

Tonight, beyond the shaking panes

a shadow show comes into view.

I see a part of it, a peachy-stain

and then the darkness, and then you,

Time itself, your click and shift,

the boys all grown, now fathers

to other boys, unseen, eclipsed

by another and another.

Something moves again,

My child talking in her sleep.

Lights go off in the house

and then even universally. 

Elizabeth Crowell grew up in northern New Jersey and has a B.A. from Smith College in English Literature and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing/Poetry from Columbia University. She taught college and high school English for many years. She lives outside of Boston with her wife and teenage children.