Old Man Throwing a Ball

He is tight at first, stiff, stands there atilt tossing the green fluff tennis ball down the side alley, but soon he’s limber, he’s letting it fly and the black lab lops back each time. These are the true lovers, this dog, this man, and when the dog stops to pee, the old guy hurries him back, then hurls the ball farther away.  Now his mother dodders out, she’s old as the sky, wheeling her green tank with its sweet vein, breath. She tips down the path he’s made for her, grass rippling but trim, soft underfoot, to survey the yard, every inch of it in fine blossom, set-stone, pruned miniature, split rails docked along the front walk, antique watering cans down-spread—up huffs the dog again with his mouthy ball— so flowers seem to spill out, red geraniums, grand blue asters, and something I have no name for, wild elsewhere in our world but here a thing to tend. To call for, and it comes.