The Poets Covenant

Etched in dusty dried mud of two years passed.
stand a pair of cleats, once worn in glory.
The crack of a bat, so smooth and fast
sail in the heavens well worth the story.

Two seamed fastballs and twelve to six curveballs
thrown in tandem to deceive a hitter.
A sacrifice bunt, an umpire's missed calls.
a stolen home run, left sweet or bitter.

Overcast skies and freshly cut grass
linger on the tip of my nose. Oh how
this moment of wood and leather shan't pass
by so quickly. Enjoy life. Our time is now.

Many a dream; played for pleasure not fame.
Kismet -- Do not let me forget the game.