There is a rhythm to the rain,
a pattern to the seasons.
Beginnings require completions,
and when the last ball was struck –
this time a slow grounder to third,
and a quick throw to first –
we have come full circle once more.
We’re relieved at the cessation of tension,
jubilant if our favorite team has won.
Much of life defies expectation;
unforeseen events shake us all,
and uncertainties tax our emotional well-being.
We need the comfort of baseball,
the thwack of the ball into the catcher’s glove,
the never varying distance between
the pitcher’s mound and the home plate,
the familiarity of the umpire’s strike call.
So, when the last out is recorded,
we will collectively breathe a sigh of relief,
secure that the constancy of baseball
will be there again next spring,
awaiting our appeal for cosmic order.