Western Wind, When Wilt Thou Blow

A man out walking a golf course in a light rain,
no clubs, just a plastic slicker
over his shoulders. . . walking the fairways,
skirting the pleasant-shaped pond with its quiet lily pads,
here and there standing beneath an oak or elm,
gazing into the distance. And the rain
keeps lightly falling, the man knows something
as important as how to introduce
his day soul to his night soul,
but there’s a golf course to walk, a tournament to plan,
no one on the course but him—walking
each green in the small rain now so lightly falling.