Thread of Tennis

A flash of green, a feathered sphere, A silent pact, a rising fear. White lines etched, a bounded stage, Where measured grace meets primal rage. The serve, a storm, a whispered plea, A painted arc for all to see. The volley's dance, a fleeting touch, A silken stroke demanding much. Each rally spun, a woven thread, Of strategy inside the head. The baseline hums a steady beat, As triumph blooms or falls defeat. The sweat-soaked brow, the clenched-tight fist, A silent war that will persist. For in this game a truth resides, Where spirit breaks or strength abides. The net, a judge, impartial, cold, A whispered "out," a story told. And echoes fade as shadows grow, A lonely court where dreams still flow. ©bfa032825