Remember how you used to catch
a fastball right in the sweet
spot. That pure, whip-crack sound
going home. Or maybe those
small birds swept in the eye of a
hurricane, riding sunshine and
stillness in the carnage. Right place,
right time. The absolute focal
point, like nirvana, a first kiss, even
that sudden right cross that
puts an end to the boxers’
discussion. Decisive, the
unexpected silence. And yours?
What will it finally be? Perhaps
an old friend in early spring as he
settles your ashes in azaleas
and phlox, the soft wind, the
sweet spot of the dead.
John lives in Savannah, GA, and has had poetry publications in The Sewanee Review, Southern Poetry Review, and The Midwest Quarterly, among others.
