The glove stays hidden
A ball wrapped inside
Tight with rubber bands
Pocket oiled and ready
The short gray days
Will end when daffodils call.
Warming up arms and minds
Bats, balls, bases in a duffel
The rich tan smell of canvas
Marking the tapestry of the game.
The outfield is lonely
The grass of the sandlot
Barely keeping up;
Distant players unreal
Like a dream.
The ball comes off the bat
Into the incandescent sky
Racing back and reaching up
Glove’s winter promise kept;
An opposing player says
Nice Catch.
Sixty years have passed,
People and places lost;
But the sights and sounds of baseball
Echoed on those green fields
Write the story and time
Of our lives.
whoisfenton 