It seems like August, when left fielders stand in the sun and wonder if they might hold dandelions in their fingertips.
Perhaps they might wonder about blossoms unfolding.
They might lose themselves in bloom.
And forget the sun lining their cheekbones, and blisters layering their thumbs.
The scent of leather is still permeating their palms.
And salt still drips on their lips.
Knee-high socks melt into calves, and jerseys fall off collarbones.
December’s muscle gone by May.
Players still haunted by the buckle of a knuckleball, and dirt skidding into home plate.
Causing cascading waves of earth.
When it started with the lilt of a petal.
In this, a player gains respite.
Recalling endless summer evenings when the sunset was unwelcome.
And the flowers in the left field grass punched through the dirt.
And cushioned the feet of fielders who dove for baseballs and didn’t count how many they caught
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