The Perfect Shot

The perfect shot: Looking up to the sky so blue The grass is a soft, luminous hue. Every blade is perfectly cut; He has every opportunity to sink that putt. He finds the sweet spot, familiar and comforting, all the same. With the perfect shot, he can win this game. From the cerulean sky, thunderclouds loom, for the golfer, this can be a portent of doom. He notices the change in the air, But plays on with care. A little rain can’t stop the perfect shot. He readjusts, as a new wind blows, In his heart, he already knows. He’s got the perfect shot. He draws the club, he strikes the ball It rolls into the rough, out of sight from all. He chases that ball. He will be victorious in spite of it all. He follows the ball, sets it up, readjusts and finds a new spot. Just like that, he has a new perfect shot. He swings, he connects, the ball sails through the air and lands in the hole. The perfect shot was always his goal. The sky is no longer a cerulean blue, The grass is no longer a perfect luminous hue. It’s raining and wet, muddy and damp. But the golfer is the certain champ. Through trial and error, adversity and giving it all he’s got, The golfer has achieved his perfect shot.