Softball Poetess

My Daughter wrote this when she was 14, I recently happened across it.

The Final Swing

Their uniform, armor of black, white, red,
Flexible shields of leather defending.
The sun beating down on each warrior’s head,
Of the outcome the heat is uncaring.

The first steps forward, preparing to swing,
Holding her weapon high, ready to hit.
Ball smacks the bat with a resounding ring
And soars through the air- to the baseman’s mitt.

“Out!” yells the umpire, the first of the game.
Shouts of victory arise like wildfire
While the fallen returns, head hung in shame,
The other side glares with threatening ire.

The Amazon warriors battle on,
Both sides refuse to relinquish the lead.
The innings pass, like seconds they are gone,
To end the tie, one final point they need.

One final batter steps up to the plate,
Even the whispering wind holds its breath.
Two strikes down, one swing will decide the fate,
Will one swing choose victory or death?