I hover over my ball
as if I’m a supplicant
and recite a mantra, a prayer.
It starts with please.
Please help me avoid water,
bunkers, tall grass, and trees.
Please let my ball fly,
not scoot and bobble down the fairway.
I don’t know how to end this prayer.
My roots reside in Hebrew chants,
in niggunim, melodies without words
and the figure of a Rabbi
who asks "Who do you say that I am?"
Linda Watskin ©2010