We strained to follow hits to the top story.
The traceries were triples, grounders strikes.
A homer had to clear the slated pitch.
Like Michael’s sword, our broomstick swung at strikes,
As the church tower’s shadow draped each pitch
And evening dimmed Good Friday’s stained-glass story.
All but the dusk was fair. Then, black as pitch,
The sky obscured our vision and His story
Of a thrust spear and jagged lightning strikes.
A final pitch, three strikes… . That game is history.
