Catch

Playing catch with my father,
late in the summer evenings,
as fireflies woke, rising
from the heavy air of cut grass,
the final night breeze on my hand
that stung from catching, cool
as water through the summer air,
a baseball fading white rose
and fell from the sky, as Venus.

As it darkened the ball faded,
my father faded, until the ball
appeared in front of me, and I
tossed it to whoever was there
among the fireflies, the stars,
the summer night ocean, laughing,
a deep voice for a child, hoping
it would return, that he would walk
from the dark, take me on his shoulders
from the backyard to where my mother
watched on the porch, relieved,
her husband, her child, at home.