Oh, look , old Galileo whispered, look, we move .
And burning, burning in the sky, the sun stood still.
Earth turned and spun and whirled about the ball,
but no one else believed. Not then. Take time ,

my father called, watching our first adopted toddler fall,
push up and waddle to my lap. It goes so fast .
Yeah, yeah, I thought, patting my daughter’s goldilocks,
thumbing her tears away. I loved that chubby cherub

with the grapejuice grin, took turns changing Pampers,
scrubbing that kid in bubble baths, giving time
and horsey rides, a thousand tasks each day before I slept.
I accuse myself, I confess I doubted my old man.

What passes fast, I thought, was time enough to do
what must be done”another flight, reports overdue,
the grass I had to cut. The earth does turn,
no, spins. I crouch now, catching my grandson

firing the ball, the red seams spinning.
He’s older than his mother was that night
my father called, when my knees could duckwalk a mile,
my shoulders and biceps bulged. Ouch , I mutter, now,

a pain each time I lob the baseball back,
my right arm stiff, old shoulder bony,
the hard ball wobbling, plopping in his glove.
And now he burns it hard, curve ball inside

I have to dive for, falling again for physics
faster than reflex, and I’m laughing on the ground,
hugging the ball, my grandson laughing,
staggering off the mound, pounding his glove.

Articles by Walt McDonald