Opening Day—“The Old Game”

“The old game waits under the white,
Deeper than frozen grass.
Down at the frost line it waits
To return when the birds return
It starts to wake in the South,
Where it’s never quite stopped.

Where winter is a doze of hibernation,

The game wakes gradually
Fathering vigor into itself.

As the days lengthen in late February
And grow warmer, old muscles grow limber.

Young arms grow strong and wild
Clogged vein systems, in veteran oak and left fielders both
Unstop themselves
Putting forth leaves and line drives in Florida’s March.

Migrating North with the swallows,
Baseball and the grasses’ first green,

Enter Cleveland , Kansas City, Boston.

Donald Hall, from Ken Burns’ Baseball.


The Doc File © 2006-2012 by Luke Dockery

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