4.05.2009

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.

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