by Stephen Jones
You’ve had all winter to think about it:
Those round words — play ball.
You even snugged them in the hollow of your glove.
All winter, they gave it — and you — shape.
Now the waiting’s done, the doors are open,
And cleats grate on locker room floors.
Spring training, and the game, unfolding,
You share space with expectation and hope.
Published in Fans, Free Verse, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments