In winter baseball lives in agate type.
Darting and furtive. Newspaper snipe.
Transactions, dinners, and lineups aligned,
And the melted ice of contracts signed.

In spring, in pica type, the game then starts,
As orioles, jays, and cards compete for hearts.
As maturing frogs and rookies each catch flies.
As sap and expectation starts to rise.

In summer the garden and baseball teams
Are full-fledged and ripe – each bursting its seams.
Ivies and rhubarbs outgrowing their fetters
With points raised by writers and their typesetters.

In autumn baseball lives above the fold.
Penance! Pennants! Screaming Banners Bold!
Explosions of color and Champagne and then

It hibernates in agate type again.