Frustration with Indian Summer Golf

Red, yellow, orange curl brown and brittle,

Bunched together and strewn around the ground,

Flying up and down and swirling a little,

Rendering my golf ball lost not found.

Kicking brittle twisted curls,

This way and that fly the crunchy browns.

Looking for any sign of sparkly pearls,

At last I glance that which was lost but found.

I head back to the cart and make myself a pledge,

To par the hole with a chip that is clean.

I spin back toward the ball, hand on the wedge.

I see a sea of brown and not an inch of green.

Oh where, oh where did that little ball go?

The wind came up the ball went under ground.

I reach in my pocket and what do you know?

There was the ball which was lost but found.

Come out, come out, you damned white spot;

Finding a ball in Indian Summer is never easy;

Sweet temptation doeth thicken the plot;

Would dropping the ball from my hand be so sleazy?

But just then the wind gives me a peek.

Hurry up, you old fogie.

The wedge comes down fast; the ball flies to the creek.

Farewell, sweet par; hello, double bogey.