I know how difficult baseball is and because she is
good at most things, I know how my daughter reacts
when she fails at something. It’s baseball today,
yesterday was archery with a plastic weapon,
and every day is handstand day. The red bat slung
across her shoulder like she has been here before,
I warn how hard it is to hit a ball moving
at you, I try to prepare the ground beneath her
new gravity, admittedly more for my sake
than hers. She hits the first ball, then the second,
only missing on my too-low toss, every contact
brings a levitation of triumph: I hit it again, Daddy.
I too am caught in this firework, the uncanny
learning of ascension, and ask, Do you want to play
softball, love? and she says, Um, not really,
as she connects again, the ball sailing out of view.