The Poet Goes to Fenway

The poet goes to Fenway
By Mary Oliver October 13, 2007

In the language of baseball
I am 3 and 2,
and not so nimble
as I was once
and the game,
at the moment,
is indecisive.
There are many poets
who love baseball
which is, after all,
a metaphor
for many things
that happen when there isn't a game.
The ball gleams forth,
and high,
and maybe it's a hit
or maybe the runner is out.
Nothing is certain
except the way
the old players hang onto their smarts,
their prowess, as long as they can
while the luminous young
keep showing up,
so swift, so quick,
with such light in their eyes
and such beautiful swings.