Grasses, fields, warm up feels like a year,
To stifle their advances invades thoughts,
But remain, with your body, your mind,
Stay now, in this groundball.
Swift, ultra smooth, you move, swimming and rolling,
Stand up, recover, you’ve just been buddied,
Passed, for the naked backside,
No doubt, your presence is evident,
Garbage, is that my game? So clean.
Reflect, in your bucket,
Chilly fingers, make us front men move quicker,
No shivers, I know a moment in never there to quiver.
Waiting, yet ready.
And, remember, only 22 days left to get a one-of-a-kind book, letter-pressed, hand-bound: Zen, Lacrosse and the Art of Stringing.