The basketball net stands high to the side of the driveway, overlooking the neighborhood. The steel and composite Goliath built by man tries to compete with spirited green trees in the surrounding area but it isn't as tall and time has been unkind; the metal is worn and the paint vague. Despite this, it still stands strong in an area of roses. Beneath the peril of the net that rides high, these roses falter as Davids without a pebble.
He shoots. He scores. A rose falls.
He shoots. He misses. A rose falls.
No matter how the basketball descends, whether through the hoop or just short of it, beauty can shatter. It isn't dependent on missed or made goals. The action alone is an avenue to a possible misdeed. The existence of a commitment to do something illustrious is without sufficience. We aren't aiming for petals but still they tumble in a shower of red mistakes. Pink mistakes. Yellow ones too. Sometimes roses break and I really didn't mean to.
[personal note: watch shawn johnson go for the gold]
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