Every year it comes,
Sure as April rains,
Sure as May flowers,
Sometimes in late March,
Sometimes in lands far from home.
How can yet it come,
You wonder, searching
Field of vision for green,
On still cold, snowy days,
For lushness coaxing shoeless fun.
Like clockwork, though, it comes
As solstices bring spring
Then summer, then fall,
The boys arrive, ready to play
To chase dreams, titles, glory.
Yes, opening day comes,
Bundle up, turn on the radio;
Winter doldrums depart
With shouts of "Play ball"
"Holy cow" and "Stee-rike!"
Play by play fills the air,
The catcher's mitt pops,
The bat cracks, the crowd shouts.
All's right with the world again–
Yes, opening day comes,
Bundle up, turn on the radio;
Winter doldrums depart
With shouts of "Play ball"
"Holy cow" and "Stee-rike!"
Play by play fills the air,
The catcher's mitt pops,
The bat cracks, the crowd shouts.
All's right with the world again–
America's game, baseball, is back.
Photo credit: Joshua Peacock on Unsplash
