All soccer games are canceled Saturday April 12th.
The dawn arrives, a hopeful gleam, The cleats are polished, a vibrant dream. Of passes crisp and shots that soar, Of cheering crowds and finding score.
But then the email, stark and white, A digital cloud obscuring light. “Due to conditions,” words declare, “Saturday’s games will not be there.”
A collective sigh, a youthful groan, The carefully laid plans overthrown. No muddy knees, no victory’s shout, Just quiet fields, and players out.
The soccer ball, a lonely sphere, Will wait another day, held dear. The painted lines, a silent stage, Where youthful energy can’t engage.
A somber note, the weekend’s hush, No thrilling tackles, no joyful rush. But in this pause, a spirit sleeps, A hunger for the field it keeps.
So rest, young warriors, dry your eyes, The sun will break through future skies. And when the whistle blows once more, The cancelled games will be no more.