He taught me form before feeling —
wrists locked,
chin down,
no follow-through too wild.
Spoke in parables of greens and grit,
gripped the world like a 9-iron:
firm, exact,
white-knuckled love.
I bent to angles he approved,
measured wind,
not wonder —
and called it becoming.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 4:08 AM UTC
He taught me form before feeling —
wrists locked,
chin down,
no follow-through too wild.
Spoke in parables of greens and grit,
gripped the world like a 9-iron:
firm, exact,
white-knuckled love.
I bent to angles he approved,
measured wind,
not wonder —
and called it becoming.
A poem for a painting
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