After a bad drive, my partner
mutters to himself, "You know, you don't have
to be happy. There's no requirement."
We're playing in the fall, our favorite
time, the grass greener and deeper
than a dry summer. The trees
are taper flames, an angel gallery,
and the sky whitens like hair
as winter already comes.
My drive is straight but short.
"Straight is good," he says. "When
you're over fifty, anything straight
is good." The ball whispers through leaves
as it rolls toward the hole.
As the slanting sun starts
to die, the colors of the trees
grow richer, like blushes
in the cheeks of virgins, who know
nothing can stop this rising,
that something is growing, swelling,
and that for the first time
and wonderful is about to happen.
The Accidental Garden