by Philip Pecorino
For those who can fathom the beauty in the game,
there is surely is nothing lame
to say that baseball time is close to divine.
It starts when you get there and ends when you leave, nothing more
. beautiful to conceive.
Start when you get to the field
and stop when to darkness you must yield.
Get under way out back much sooner than later
to end when you get called in for dinner.
From the beginnings that rest in memories of sandlot plays on to
. glorious major league majestic displays,
the rhythm and temper of the game,
though never quite the same,
feels quite right,
whether in day or night.
Start seasons when the season’s leaves spring out from branch and
. vine then end when they’re falling as winter season comes calling.
It all seems so natural as if designed supernatural.
Published in Free Verse, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments