First Field

It's baseball season. Everybody remembers the first field they ever played on as a kid.

The base paths lined with chalk
The sand packed tight upon the mound
Remind me of the place we used to walk
With my eyes held on you and glove held to the ground
The field sprinkled with green grass
The sky filled to the brim with clouds
Remind me that not a day shall pass
When I won’t remember the faces of the crowds
The perpendicular surface and foamy raised plate
The two rectangular boxes symmetrically placed
Remind me of the incorrigible change the game can create
With everyday problems vanished and erased
The trophies, plaques and signed balls stored away
The soiled uniforms and jerseys too small to fit
Remind me of how my father taught me to play
When he oiled the leather on my first baseball mitt