Who could ever think of the coldness of a golf course?
The piercing shock you get when you wrap your hands around your club.
The chilling wind seaping through my sweater holes.
The anticipation building up inside,
hoping for that birdie.
The sun eluminating the pathway to your par.
But who could ever be reminded of the anger flowing out when the rage tosses the club halfway across the field?
The wind styling my hair into a comb-over across my face.
The balls soaring through the air,
just to be lost in the brush.
Ripped gloves attempt to protect your palms,
as you shoot for that eagle.
Who could ever think of the coldness of a golf course?