We will the miss the game, the green.
Not by accident is the ballyard called a park, a bit of the country in the city, a bit of the natural in the manmade.
The sun has crossed the equator, the season nears its end. When again the sun draws near, we will have our game again, its clean lines and lovely trajectories, its beautiful physics, its order and its rhythms, so attuned to our own, and so right for each other's company (if the scoreboard would pipe down) -- no small magic in the systems of threes.
We shall build our fires and huddle around them in the dark. The clashes of winter will sustain us as we wait for the bluebirds to arrive and the pitchers and catchers to report, blessing the cycles of the earth.
When we have hope, we have everything.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
