sunday mornings

i miss how the leather
ball felt in my hand
before throwing it across
a green field, lined
and long, and wide
into someone's waiting
hands. i miss the sweat
and hard pushes and
pulls and banging into
the ones you played
against. drawing plays
in the dirt. i miss those
days of sunday morning
sandlot games, when
we were young and then
not so young and yet
kept at it until time
and life forced us
to all go our separate ways.