on the field

how fast you were
when the ball
touched your hands,
the exhilarating
burst of speed,
as you darted across
the field like
a small gazelle,
darting in ways
that were least
expected. how sweet
it was to burn your
lungs with winter
air, and feel the tug
of the earth
beneath your cleats.
how those memories
stay fresh
within you after
all these years,
is not a mystery
at all.
joy never is.