Golf Haiku

I took up golf last year for the first time. I have avoided the game for 42 years, but was finally tricked into it under the guise of having fun. Much to my chagrin, it was. Which probably indicates that I am not playing it right. I play with used clubs purchased at a yard sale, on a six-hole par 3 course (it's a long story). It's rough, with the greens pocked with random patches of gravel. That means nothing to me, ignorant as I am of the finer points of the game. I just like to whack the ball. I have dreams of Extreme Survival Golf, where the course is 50 miles long, and the players must carry all their own food and water.
As the snow has receded temporarily, and the ground begins to dry up and lose that squishy spongey moist quality so characteristic of the New England Mud Season (yes, it is the official 5th season) thoughts turn again to the ping of the ball flying of the face of my persimmon wood driver. I honor this ridiculous pastime now with a selection of Haiku. Special curses to Tom Weber who got me started.

Nine holes spaced on a lawn
I find them, each one.
A divining rod without a fork.

Graphite clubs, new balls,
A land full of promise.
The search for meaning begins.

The club, the tee, grass
Carpeting rolling hills.
The ball mocking silently.

Dimples on the white
Orb; it makes me sad.
The blue sky sliced by a ball.

I see the pin, white
And orange on short grass.
No gin for me. A dry day.