One blue ball, nothing special, that blue ball,
that you could pucker between your fingers,
throw high or low, lobbed or overarmed
to a sibling, or the peach tree that can’t catch.
So add another ball, mixing it up in the sky,
two open-mouthed arcs falling parabolic into
the hands simultaneously of sister and brother,
plotted together in the joyous evening air—
unexpectedly a broad bean, long and green,
laughter, and a blue ball bouncing, escaping
down the drive; forgotten, nothing special,
that blue ball, as dusk darkens; moves inside.