Mockingbird failed me this morning—no song to rouse me from restless sleep. I drag my aching bones from bed and plod to the window, crack the blinds and greet a pewter sky. Heaviness, oppression.
Does all nature sense
the shifting winds and weather
Has the desert sun and palette of blue spoiled me for vagaries of spring? Will we be able to keep our nine-thirty tee time?
First tee—wind kicks up
my ball finds water
an excuse today
We go ahead and play eighteen. Gray skies tamp down the ball’s flight, slow down the putts it seems. Rain spits at us all morning.
Spring in Palm Desert
old people play rounds of golf
ignore aches and pains.
Written in response to Monday Morning Writing Prompt and for NaPoWriMo Day 6. The form is a haibun–a blend of prose and haiku.