dressed in green
then as blushing pink brides
in celebration of fruit,
in a tree's
A tree's thick branches,
just out of reach,
awaken the ancient
slumbering deep within me,
and allow my boy fingers
to grip rough bark with
I cannot remember.
We caddies didn’t look like much
in our hung out to dry jeans and t-shirts,
but we were hired by
some of Seattle’s finest citizens–
the two buck fee and a dollar tip, made three.
At first we were mere mules
shouldering a heavy load,
or silent statues
eyeing the unruly flight of the ball,
but soon enough
they taught us
most of what gentlemen need to know–
how to throw clubs,
the ball with our foot,
When i was a boy Mother insisted i attend Sunday School and Church each Sunday, though she never once stepped through the door.
i occupied a pew beside my sisters, and thought about baseball, rocks, golf, fishing, and just about anything else but our Lord and Savior.
one fine morn there was a special feature—a woman came from afar to play glorious music on her harp for all to hear.
wait a minute, i thought. Harp is a light Irish beer, and i’d much rather have a cold glass of it right now than her and that danged harp.