Comb In The Clubhouse

Will I play 17 holes
Before I die?

The branches break
With no leaves to breathe
Just one leave left seething

Driving to the pole
I bide my shot
Biting my tongue on the fore
Before me, beyond me
After me

The course of my body
Riddled with the same query
And a hole
No luck or blood to flow
From any
So many
Too few
I thought I knew how
To play

But the wind, she
Laughs and loves
And I wait for her

Must I play
Seventeen holes?