Russet oak leafs drop like ghosts of cheers
On the diamond at Bowling Green
Caroline County, Virginia
A groundskeeper called North Wind
Promptly sweeps it clean
The bleachers hold two hundred
When it’s not a whole lot less
No matter as succeeding generations
Provide their own attendance
Father to son, aunt to niece
Most make it no closer to the majors
Than Tappahannock or Ashland
Mechanicsville or Dumfries
And when September blows the corn dry
They give the glove
A last oiling for the season
Without an afterthought
Other than a vicarious thrill
For the Series heroes
They turn their evolution
To things no innings measure
But sometimes in their dreams
They start to the crack of a bat
THE POETRY OF THE GAME