[RedlegJake]

Sorry about the double post - not sure how thaqt happened. My father wrote other poems, too. Thought since he was honored in WoY's post that I'd include it. It was written after he began slowing down and was reminiscing about his years coaching youth:

Furnace Winds

Dust gathers itself in the furnace noon,
as twistlets whirl and dance like mating birds,

boys chase flying hats and recall that fans
aren't the only blowhards in Kansas.
Winds have hot air too, except cursing them

won't change the mind of the Umpire
who sent them, nothing for it but hunkering
down and squinting hard. Red eyelids

gritty, full of visions of light tunnels:
After images of the last thing seen
before the breath of Him halted the game.

Now the moment when each is a hero:
Eyes squeezed tight, seeing the ghost
of himself blown across the plate!

CE 1995