Consistency

Sometimes I hit my golf ball
long and far —for me,
other times it drags along
the ground like an earthworm,
sometimes I draw a tree
and you recognize the type,
other times my tree resembles
a stick with protrusions

it’s that illusive consistency

sometimes I sit down to write
and everything falls into place,
other times I worry each word
and wonder where I’m going
and the chances of my getting there

intermittent reinforcement
keeps me trying—for
one long drive off the tee box,
one birch tree that doesn’t
resemble a stalk of bamboo,
one good sentence
that sings