One game, one pitch…
one strike of splintered wood,
a rope, will it make it
to the short grass
of the freshly cut outfield,
rolling all the way to the fence.
Rounding third
heading for home,
leather fronts the plate
the ball comes in…
the ball rolls loose
He’s safe…
We did it!
we won…
the biggest game
the winning run
Summer dreams
sounds from the kitchen
clanking pans and plates
the smell of toast
and the bacon sizzle
A big stretch,
and a yawn
It’s time to rise
It’s time to play
where’s my glove