Today's poem comes to mind each year as ice-encrusted winter months start retreating and I resume walking past those ball diamonds waiting for crowds of kids ... or would-be kids ... to return.
It also comes to mind with the onset of nippy nights and chilly mornings ... a reminder that the things of summer will soon be put aside while we search for the leaf rake ... and the dreaded snow shovel.
I like to store away sunnier memories ... something to tide me over in less inviting times, weather-wise.
What better memory than a sun-drenched ball park?
There's one ball park in particular that holds a certain fascination. I guess it's because there's seldom anybody else around as we go strolling by.
I do pause there ... sometimes approach the backstop, and my fingers do grip the wire mesh like "some abandoned vine" ... while I think of days long, long ago, when I actually ran the bases a few times.
There's still that momentary urge to try it again. But I'm a little smarter now ... and a lot slower ... and I never do.
The poem:
Play BALL!
Standing behind
the sagging backstop
at the deserted field,
my fingers gripping
the wire mesh like
some abandoned vine,
I'm tempted to go
tearing around second,
sliding into third
in a cloud of dust;
instead, I linger
a few moments more,
enjoying the quiet,
just imagining that
roar of the crowd.© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: sagging
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