The poet goes to Fenway

In the language of baseball
I am 3 and 2,
and not so nimble
as I was once

and the game, at the moment,
is indecisive.
There are many poets
who love baseball

which is, after all,
a metaphor
for many things
that happen when there isn't a game.

The ball gleams forth, and high,
and maybe it's a hit
or maybe the runner is out.
Nothing is certain except the way

the old players hang on
to their smarts, their prowess
as long as they can
while the luminous young

keep showing up,
so swift, so quick,
with such light in their eyes
and such beautiful swings.

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Mary Oliver is author of the just-released "Our World."