A SOFTER CURVEBALL

He ran the world and when he thought of stopping
the race track played another trick on him
His wild hair halo round a face with beads
of fine salt tickle tease run down his neck
Then, as evening entered on the blood orange
gravel, and nebula witches whirled upon the
green grass, he stopped and stayed and stared.
Alone there, he dropped the manly guise
his gait a slow lush grace with careful steps
His arms gracefully wrapped around the one
that during daytime always will be known as he
but night throws softer curveballs at her
A shy butterfly, stepped out of a soft cocoon
ready to step back into a life of caterpillar.