|
| |
These Hallowed Fields
The crack of the bat,
The roar of the crowd,
The smell of the earth,
In these hallowed fields.
The taste of the hotdog,
The sun in my face,
The warm gentle breeze,
In these hallowed fields.
The windup of the pitcher,
The call of the ump,
The anger of the batter,
In these hallowed fields.
The cheer of good friends,
The closeness of family,
The kiss of my spouse,
In these hallowed fields.
Copyright ©
Lanier Thomas
|
|