soft breezes
rustle the August leaves.

lush canyons of fairway
framed by the thin barrier strips of native woodland.

cars rumble by
and are ignored.

There is only the ball, teed up
awaiting the final commitment
to swing.

A whoosh, a pop – then
white on blue, white on green
the walk and
the talk
about your lie
about your life

What would you hit from here?

(Charlottesville, Va., Spring 1987)