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Golf
It is Master's weekend in Augusta;
This used to be a magical time for me.
The kickoff in my quest to become
As good at this game as I could be.
Time passes, goals shift, desires wane;
My golf bag sits in the garage unused.
Clubs dust covered, my swing rust coated;
The siren of golf no longer calls my name.
Once upon a time, I had such a passion;
No longer does the fire exist, not a spark.
It died when my Dad died, buried with him;
But my clubs await that day that will come.
Occasionally, I will sense a shadow in my soul;
I feel a practice swing moving across my body.
It feels good, feels fresh; the day is coming;
Returning with passion to the game of golf.
Phil Mickelson strides up the 18th fairway;
Winning at Augusta, a storybook ending.
This game that echoes that names of legends;
I also hear it call to one insignificant hacker.
11Apr10
Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades
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