Divot

On the fairway's emerald stage,
A divot lies, a modest scar,
Where club met turf in quiet rage,
And left a crater, faint ajar.

The greenkeeper, with careful hand,
Fills the dent with loam and seed,
A patient art, a quiet stand,
To heal the wound that golfers need.

Each tiny wound a story tells,
Of swings that missed, of hopes that soared,
Yet in the earth, the grass rebels,
And grows anew, restored, rewarded.