Image by tipiro via Flickr

By eaa1118

To calm- and warmly clear us of old year’s fevers, frets

We skywards look at the badminton ball as it bounces from

Racket to God—to earth, to racket: in crested, slurred

Uniformities of arm and wind

What may be essays of weakness, strengths really are

Attempts to wade into some light, of how

This new-born passion nails into half-truths

The confused feelings that we sometimes are

            Brownie doesn’t seem concerned, he basks

In games puppies prod, invent: look at how

Discovering a New Year joy in slippers, twigs—he wheels

Chasing his smiles round circular cement seats

            We suspend flights

Of the badminton ball, and pure innocent delights

Feast on his dedication, zeal…you lovingly

Call him, but Brownie just won’t turn around. Aren’t puppies

Masters of some subtle predilections we

Sometimes are…