I’ve known baseball;
I’ve known baseball as
ancient as the centuries
and older than the flow of
pitch and catch across the generations.
My soul has grown deep like baseball.
I bathed in the early morning light
when the sun dawned over the right field fence,
and built my house near Ebbets Field,
as the pastoral game lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the ball parks and raised
the mound in the middle of the diamond.
I heard the singing of fastballs
when Walter “Big Train” Johnson
came east from semi-pro ball in Idaho.
I have seen the muddy fields prior to a rain-out.
I’ve known baseball:
ancient, dusky double-headers.
My soul has grown deep like baseball.