Remember, you asked for it.
Sonnet from Marc Portugal
When time comes to quantify the secrets
Now hidden on the base-paths of our dreams
numbers will not steal away the image
Of graceful dancing, slowly moving scenes
Showing how the steps came into sunlight
Or finding how the rhythmic night unfolds
Will not take the place of standing, cheering--
Experiential reason tints this old
Game of diamonds, game of stillness, movement.
This game of sudden, wrenching, rough ballet.
Split apart the atom! Peel the onion!
The beauty that you find will not allay
Visions we have had since we were children.
Those nights of glory, days of fresh-mown grass,
Whisper in our ear that we were made for
An extra-inning game, one last at-bat.
Pour me new numbers until I say 'yield',
When I drink bury me in deep right field.
(this was done quickly; I apologize for the improper rhyme scheme.)