A free-verse poem about watching four-year-old children playing soccer. |
Driving past a field filled with undersized players decked out in complete uniforms hurrying after an undersized soccer ball, little legs flailing to send the ball toward the goal, I stop to watch. Coaches and proud parents point and shout instructions, large smiles filling their faces at the players’ antics. Two teams of four-year-olds mill about in pursuit of a goal or defense against such on that end of the field. I turn my attention to the far end of the playing field. A small girl, bored with guarding her team’s unchallenged goal from absent activity, sits amidst the goal, carefully plucking flowering heads from small weeds. Her coach yells for her to stand and remain on guard, ready to defend the goal … but she turns her back and picks another “flower” for her collection. A boy is sent to defend the goal. He is diligent … for a minute or two. Then he sits and becomes an ally in picking “flowers” from the field, unconcerned about the flurry of effort at the far end of the field. I drive on smiling at the wisdom of four-year-old soccer players. Adults all too soon forget the joy of picking flowers along their journey through life. Please check out my ten books: http://www.amazon.com/Jr.-Harry-E.-Gilleland/e/B004SVLY02/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0 |