Where Rain Will Never Come 10 x 18 Pastel Uart 400 Grit on Acid Free Board
In Summer sun and evening breeze that lightly kisses cheeks, where rain will never come. Pop! Pop! Pop! Spherical white settles into well-oiled leather, where rain will never come. Freshly cut grass smelling sweet, a wheel makes rhythmic squeak laying chalk, fair or foul, where rain will never come. Attention called empathetically, “Play Ball”, young voices call encouragement, coaches clap in time with barking orders and rain will never come. Parents chatter earlier events, occasionally shout, siblings scatter to swing sets deep, or seeking nickels, dimes for ice cream truck chimes, old Rosie be where rain will never come. Cleats crunch cinders at old Stackpole and dust clouds filter skyward by arms clasped tight to canvas base where rain will never come.
Now marching toward autumn days and later chill, the youthful step has faded. Graying hair soon winter white reflects upon the curves of life. Eyesight going, hearing too, arthritic pops and crackles. Older, no longer taut, the now visible chips and cracks of broken leather mirror the ageing of the skin. I close my eyes, to warming sun upon my face, breathe in deep the Summer air, fading back to deep fly ball, to the memories and innocence of youth that hold me still in later years and always, where rain will never come.
