Nothing but basketball comes in  March.
Everyone dreams of cutting down nets.
Who will reach deep to find strength
in muscles that ache but must not quit?

Look how chosen teams play
keep-away with beautiful slippers—
no longer afraid of the Spirit,
no longer afraid to think, holy.

Strong teams wear white, bend weary limbs
like forsythia branches, yellow and hardy.
Other teams wear black—
always black, under the bright lights.

There are no godmothers.
No pumpkins or coaches.  Not even mice.
Everyone knows the clock will strike midnight.
And they don’t really dance at this ball.

 

first published in Writer’s Harbor