Golf

I don't golf myself, but some of those closest to me love the "game". I also spent three summers working in a pro shop, getting to know the sport, the players, and, yes, the merchandise. The only golf I play is the miniature kind. But, in honor of my dad and father-in-law, I wrote a poem about their favorite past time for Father's Day this year...

“Golf”

by Sara Marie Allen

Nature, mastered in manufactured perfection:

          Each blade of grass is cut to regulation,

          Greens break in predetermined direction,

          Water hazards anticipation,

          Manicured sand traps in exact locations;

          Four-inch tin holes mark destinations,

          And emblazoned flags pinpoint man’s ambition.

Here lies the scene, of man

          conquering mind and body, and friend or foe:

As each muscle fires in predictable sequence

          to swing and follow through,

And titanium and steel work

          together in scientific harmony,

To propel a white, precisely weighted ball toward its goal;

Silence and concentration reign

          as well-dressed men in barbed shoes

Scrutinize remaining variables

          of weather, strength, and endurance--

Until, at last, the count is tallied and the spoils gathered;

Then they sip and sigh away

          as the failures and victories are analyzed—

And resolve is mounted for another try.