Sitting, like Rodgers Hornsby, looking
Out the window at the bleak winter day
Waiting- yes, for Spring- for the green grass
And the heralding crack of bats,
For Trout and Mookie and Thor, X-man and Judge, the Polar Bear,
For days less full of nights, certainly
But waiting, also for you and me,
For that version of you and me,
Wandering in lone back fields
And riding rough pine beams
Or watching quietly at night
For sometime we have not seen
Yet in the old ballgame,
Quiet, with sweet anticipation,
Waiting, once again,
For the smallest shred of magic to be reborn,
In a Spring night’s journey home.
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