Speak

Anything can speak.
Today, amid the scrubby weeds,
an old baseball mitt
tells a story.
It tells of summer dreams,
a boy drifting out in the green grass,
looking up for that white speck
against the sky,
blue as a cornflower.
There is the smack of a fist
against leather,
the echo of a cheering crowd,
the father's pat on the back,
the little flame of pride
to carry through the years.
Or it might be a remembrance
of bitter things:
of not being good enough,
of dropping the ball, the shame,
the long ride home,
the childhood gone.
Anything can speak.
You just have to listen.

--Timothy Haut, March 5, 2016