Golf Poem by Hans Ostrom

On vast manicured pastures,
eccentric members of an obscure religious cult
seek the hard white spherical fruit
of the mythical snow-tree. Smaller
than a plum, the nutty fruit sometimes
soars away from these people; sometimes
it bounds like a rabbit into the woods;
or rolls like a perfect ice-ball
formed by a child's hands, only
to come to rest, and to melt,
in a patch of pale sand in the pasture.

Morose assistants accompany the members
of the cult and carry bags of arcane, ceremonial
weapons. Sometimes the believers stand
over the white delicacy as if they were grieving.
Sometimes, with enormous, sad deliberation,
they push away the nut with one of the weapons,
which seems more sword than club, more club
than sword. The rolling nut disappears into
a tiny rodents' hole. The believer then retrieves it,

examines it with something like regret,
then hands it to his or her assistant. People
from the village sometimes observe these
inscrutable rituals. They gather in groups,
herded behind ropes. Sometimes they applaud,
as if commanded to do so. Mostly they watch
in anxious silence. They concentrate on
the believers' every move, even when
a believer is merely walking and the white
nut is not nearby. No one seems to know
what any of this activity means.