Dear Putter, I Love You but I Hate You

Dear putter, companion of the fairway and the green,
In whose presence, life’s varied hues are seen.
You’re a beacon, a torment, a source of delight,
Under the sun’s gaze and the moon’s silvery light.

In the morning’s dew, with the lark’s sweet tune,
We dance together under the rising moon.
Every stroke, a question posed to the fates,
In the hands of gods, or the skill of mates?

Yet, oh! the agony when your face turns astray,
And the ball, like a wayward child, rolls away.
A breath held in suspense, a spirit nearly broken,
By the truth of your silence, so softly spoken.

Like Walden’s quiet, your whispers teach,
A humble lesson, beyond mere speech.
In your capricious whims, I see a mirror,
Reflecting my faults, in high definition and clearer.

In you, dear putter, I find my bane,
And yet without you, there’s no game.
So, I endure your trials, accept your verdict,
Striving always for the perfect stroke, perfect conflict.

When at last, the ball finds its home,
In the cup, beneath the sky’s azure dome,
Oh, what joy! What divine satisfaction!
For in that moment, I glimpse perfection.

Each putt, a battle between love and disdain,
Each miss, a lesson, each hit, a gain.
Dear putter, I love you, but I hate you,
Yet without you, what would I pursue?

In you, I discover life’s essence, pure and true,
The struggle, the triumph, the ever-changing hue.
So, we’ll meet again on the morrow’s field,
For in your company, my soul is healed.