Golf Camp

You dive into
the chlorophyll,
tumbling down,
hands grasping for
fairway blades.

You’re 9, and this
is your first time here
on this measured grass
with these friends
who will be strangers after
the week ends, but not yet—
no need to think about that yet.

You want to smell
the fresh-cut green:
sunburns and bug bites
and a golf club slicing the air
are all you need to worry about.

You’re 14, and all
those people from camp
are still in front of you
but slowly slipping away,
the moments made in grass—
snow angels fashioned in mud,
white balls flying to beyond—
quietly fading to gray.

You’re 20—you’ve forgotten
names, faces, voices,
the calloused, sweaty hands you held
every July in thick, scorched air.

You’re back at the green
but it’s not the same. You fall
down on all fours,
knowing other peoples’
memories will be made there
as yours waste away
under the blades.