MY WALKING STICK

‘Tis a lightly colored brown
Tinted with silver and grey
I happened upon it while walking one day.

It’s nearly three feet long
With a crook at one end
Just a slight turn
Where the branch chose to bend.

It has a thin split
Along half its length
Yet despite the weathering
It’s retained its strength.

Scattered here and there
Are spots where branches sprouted
Now worn and smoothed by time
Yet in spots rough and grouted.

At the bottom is a blunted end
Worn and smoothed

By sand and gravel
Smooth yet pitted by miles of travel.

At the top the tiny crook
Is smooth and polished
And fits my hand.

Just below the top
Is a darker spot
Where my sweat’s absorbed
By the stick’s drier top.

It takes my essence
And absorbs it there
As the miles we’ve walked
Soon absorbed my care.

Those miles we’ve walked together
Formed a bond
T’ween stick and man.

And here we sit
Midst cold winters days
Thinking, both stick and I
Of warm summer’s haze.

We’ve walked the fields
This stick and I
We’ve smelled the flowers
As we each passed by.

We saw the birds
As they took wing
We heard the raspy voices
As crickets sing.

So I’ve sat by the fire
With my stick many nights
Dreaming of summer’s
Myriad colorful sights.

Soon we’ll walk together
As we’ve walked before
And see new sights
Which our memories store.

When I’ve gone
Long after I die
I hope this stick
Will continue to fly.

That some good friend
Will lay it to rest
But amongst the trees
Not across my breast.


Let some other soul
Come walking by
And pick up this cane
And together we’ll fly.

‘Cross woods and fields
Seeing each spirit and sprite
And bring to mind
Words we’d have chosen to write.

For my spirit’s
Sure to be
Partly stored within this stick
A small but special part of me.

Let this branch
Guide them there
To that special world
Leaving all care
Far behind
As we walk afield
The cane, my spirit, blended as one,
Walking along under the summers sun.
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