All On a Summer’s Eve

early in the evening

after dinner and the dishes

we played badminton 

rituals don’t need to be forever

they last a season

perhaps a few years

but the senses hold onto them

these days, they live in me 

like the freckle on my left hand

that I inherited from my mother 

dad had a good serve

I mimicked to keep up

our matches were always close

I learned about healthy competition from a happy, 

middle aged sailor 

what I called any dreaded sport

turned into magic as

he grinned at me through the net

neighbor kids flocked

to our sweet safehouse, 

our side yard, tall grasses

leaping with fireflies

we were ballet at dusk

captured in summer’s sunset 

preserved in glass jars