All alone,
seemingly abandoned in the sandlot;
drops of rain dappling its well-used leather;
it takes a moment
for the brain to register fully
what your eye is seeing,
and then
> > b - o - o - m < <
echoes of the slap
of ball in glove;
the crack of the bat;
the taunting, teasing calls to the batter,
whistling and hooting;
all the sounds of the boys of summer.
And a smile slowly emerges
from your heart to your lips;
and maybe your eyes get a little misty
with the sweet memories
of
playing ball.
Taken 19 March 2011.
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