Cold air burns my nose and throat
Breath clouding overhead
Sleeves pulled tight around my throwing hand
Fingers so numb I can barely grip the ball

Cleats stuck in the dirt
And mud frozen like concrete
Dry leaves covering the field
Like a carpet as tacky as glue

Gusts of wind howl through layers of clothes
Biting exposed hands and uncovered skin
Skewing the pitcher’s throw
As the ball travels across the plate

My bat stings my hands on contact
Freezing muscles screaming in protest
Pulling the ball towards the far off fence

Sweatshirt’s too thin, air’s too cold, dirt’s too hard
Softball in springtime doesn't quite have
The hard edge of winter ball
It’s perfect (I love it)