Has your ball ever rolled into a woodchuck hole in the middle of the fairway? Or have you wondered why sometimes everything you hit goes left? Or why you can make 10 on a hole that you birdied the day before?

In the tradition of P. G. Wodehouse, John Updike, and George Plimpton, these poems show a reverence for the game of golf and for literary tradition. They are poems for those who have spent cool night hours lying in a sand trap just looking up at the stars, but also for those who spend time wondering how many golf balls it would take to fill the lake just to the right of number 5. They are poems—serious and quirky—of the heart and of the cosmos, written by and for people who know that golf is not just similar to life, but at times is life.