“Hope may be the thing with feathers,”
Emily Dickinson said, but it’s clear
she never attended an opening day game.
Forget about feathers, my dear Emily.
Hope is the smell of the ballpark,
under a crystal-blue sky.
Hope is the speed of the first pitch thrown,
which is called for a strike.
Hope is the first long fly ball
that has a chance of going yard.
No thought of a losing game or season now.
Emily, if you were alive today,
I’d take you to opening day.
We’d have good seats in the reserved section.
I’d buy you a hot dog, and if
you were still hungry, a pretzel as well.
And when my home team wins,
as assuredly it must,
then you would know what hope truly is.