Washout

The rain came down heavy and flattened the grass,

watching the afternoon's boundaries pass.

The white powder lines that were sharp as a sting

are bleeding away like a broken thing.

I walked through the dirt where the shortstop would stand,

now it's just silt and a gray, shifting sand.

The lime left a smear on the side of my boot,

a ghost of a game that has taken no root.

We decide where it ends and we say where it starts,

drawing the borders on maps and on hearts.

But the clouds don’t acknowledge the rules of the play,

they just wash the whole diamond to nothing but clay.