Today's poem is First Day at the New Field by Claire Hersom. It is read by Julia Bouwsma.
First Day at the New Field
- for Jim
And there they were all of them lined
up against the linked fence, one after another,
from 8th grade to grannies, from firefighter,
to executive, from freckled 8 year olds
to those lined dinosaurs of men, bent and weary.
They stood and faced the American flag dangling
limp in a no-breeze day, the steeple of the Methodist
church spiking through the pines across the stream,
and listened to the superintendent sing the National
Anthem with his strong tenor voice, a voice that can talk
about pensions, retirement, re-certs, and subs
who are now finally filling in when needed, still
so many scarred from the Covid years, and
'will we ever be the same,' he says. And I think
we're not meant to be the same generation after
generation, but to make our way through
the strains and surprises of each day, and only
in the shared things that make us real
are we all the same, 'don't you think?' I ask.
The whistle blows, and we get back on track
watching the kids and the parents watching
the referees in their striped shirts,
creased black slacks, there to see if anyone
disobeys the rules, goes outside the lines,
plays too rough or dirty, and whether they
need to blow the whistle, stop the game, and
remind them we all need boundaries, or it's chaos.
The rules that must continue, as must surprises,
like an unexpected philosophical conversation
straight from the announcer's box and those
unforeseen singing superintendents.