Printed, bound, packed
These dusty library shelves,
New worlds await their Megellans
At his side, the leather glove,
Hand just curled in,
Feels more like home
Then the slab of white
A short throw away.
Everything is before him.
The sun, shield by his cap,
The crowd, that ocean of sound,
The pitcher, bent, staring- serious as death-
The batter, a samurai alone against their army.
For a moment
All is still
Everything is before him
And behind him the sea of endless green.