As winter clutches me by the throat,
with snow beginning to fall,
(though not as bad as my upstate neighbors
who must shovel snow off their roofs,)
I dream of green fields and worn gloves,
and hot afternoons of sandlot games,
where childhood stretches out forever.
Basketball’s too fast, football too violent,
and only the tradition of pitch and catch
matches the peaceful feelings I seek.
Come ye heroes of my past,
emerge from your icy caverns,
and cavort on the field of my imagination.
Me, at the plate, spraying balls to left, center and right.
Me, at first, completing the DP with a nice scoop.
Me, in the bleachers with hot dog and soda,
losing all track of time,
until I am urged to drop my reverie,
button up my coat, and do a little
pre-Thanksgiving shoveling of my own.