Lawrence requested and I tried to deliver. Loosely following the style of Walt Whitman, born May 31, 1819, recited 190 years later at the Ballesteros Open, at Doubletree:
I stand on gnarled roots and twigs, fallen leaves forecasting my fate should I linger too long.
I feel the oppression of the leafy bough, skies blotted by its branches, life and death embodied in a single heavenly arch
I breathe the heavy mist, cool and filling in my breast, tempting me to linger, to stay upon the trunk of its host
Searching, seeking forward sun and lush fields, pennants promising victory upon the shores of distant land
I struggle torn between the calming glen and the glory of the plain, to succumb to the shade or to lay up on the sunny hill
One last deep breath of cool air, one glance above through the looming bough, one fierce swipe with my sickle as I send one final thought through the leaves toward heaven:
Why, Lord, did I not take a mulligan?
- San Diego Steve