Poet's Choice

Unlike me, the buds do not hesitate,

the hills are confident they will be

perfectly reflected

in the glass of the river.

I oiled my glove yesterday.

Half the season is over.

When will I be ready?

On my desk sits a black-and-white postcard picture

of my father -- skinny, determined,

in a New York Giants uniform --

ears protruding, eyes riveted.

Handsome, single-minded, he looks ready.