Toils of Work, The Joys of Success

Sweet, sweet, sweat

How I’ve missed your aroma

and therapeutic effect on my skin

Hesitant at first,

you take periods of hard sprints and work to coax into giving

But when you give, you give generously,

trapping dirt fixtures upon my face, soiling the fibers of my shirt

After giving your fill, you demand rest and water,

a fair price to the adrenaline rush you feed

Sweet, sweet, sweat,

I thank you for the feeling of success and victory you give me,

after long-rugged days of intense pain

You are a reward in yourself.

Cold, crisp, grass

How you give me the feeling that I can fly

Pleasant padding beneath my feet,

I reply by tearing your surface with spiked cleats

Forgive me.

But cold, crisp, grass,

Sometimes you deceive me and play me as a fool

You pretend to seduce me to work on your surface,

and then lash at me with your long blades,

or purposely set clumps to trip me and injure my ankle

Sometimes you can be deceivingly dry and dusty, harassing the air I breath

But other times, you turn painfully cold and wet,

attacking my exposed skin and clinging to my socks

But cold, crisp, grass,

I forgive you.

In fact, I thank you.

Your stains and scars remind me of my toil,

and of the joys they have brought in my success while playing on your field

You are a reward in yourself.