holes eleven, twelve, and the start of thirteen

A frosty Arizona morning

sitting in a chair

coffee in hand

facing hole number eleven

the old women and men march down the fairway

the birds chat and watch as

the sun rises slowly over the

burnt red tile roofs

an oddity to a northerner like me

where shingles are King

 

and the leaves are still now

with no breeze to make them

dance and sway like they did yesterday

reminding me of a flamenco dancer’s dress

at an evening ball

or a sundress running on the beach

 

and from where I am I can see at least ten different

types of trees each with their own

unique forms and leaves,

bark and story

perpetually hanging out with each other

on holes eleven, twelve, and the

start of thirteen

 

Gladys missed a thirty footer

and sent it another ten feet away

and as she cursed and stomped toward

her ball I wonder if she ever

notices her tall friends surrounding her

on holes eleven, twelve, and the

start of thirteen

 

cheering her on and inviting

her to be at peace and

remember many things including

growth is slow

and slow change, trees, and stillness

are beautiful

holes eleven, twelve, and the start of thirteen

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