On February nineteenth the road lights burned,
Austin loud, a silver tide.
We carried the sun anyway,
a short bench humming, a stubborn pride.

Devin Booker’s hip flared, early and sharp,
a comet dipping below the rim.
The offense learned to breathe by committee,
hands to the ball, eyes to the hymn.

The Spurs ran clean lanes and winter wind,
but we kept speaking of tomorrow:
a home court waiting, Orlando on the horizon,
practice footsteps chasing sorrow.

Short-handed, we counted the quiet details,
and kept the ball moving, heart to heart.
Saturday brings Orlando into our house,
so we stitch new light from the dark.