Thread Of Tennis Poem by Bernard F. Asuncion

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.