Ian C.

The Tennis Ball

Back and forth with a steady, pounding rhythm,
a yellow-green blur hopping over the net,
wildly moving, dashing to and fro,
yet with deliberation. The tempo increases;
it is barely visible as it continues to be pummeled.
But then a change – the ball is suddenly airborne,
high through the air, soaring, reaching for the heavens,
pure bliss, hovering in midair, the sun bathing it in warmth,
but not forever, as it begins to plummet down to Earth,
following its inevitable course to the ground.
And it knows it is too vulnerable, knows it has no chance now,
and it is correct. A racquet swoops
down with the force of a mallet, and
bouncing once with a fierce intensity
it hops to its resting place
on the red surface, alongside its brethren,
repeating the path,
waiting for another chance to fly.




[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2010 EDITION]


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