My Walking Stick
It’s a simple walking stick,
A branch from a tree
That once grew in a forest
Between a cricket-infested field
And a beribboned railroad track.
And in time, it fashioned itself
Especially for me.
I saw in that forlorn and broken branch
The potential to become a thing
Both elegant and useful.
All it needed was my touch.
I wanted so to release
The form and shape,
The tortured grain
And all the myriad imperfections
That lay beneath that unassuming bark.
It offered just a hint of what lay within.
Knots and whorls and the snakey tracks
Of parasites and long-dead mycelium.
Arthritic knuckles adorned its length
Promising a unique prop to hold me up
With arthritic knuckles of my own.
So I fashioned it.
I crafted it within the confines of its shape,
Taking care with every imperfection,
To draw it into the finished product.
There is something sensual about
A finely shaped piece of wood,
The forming and the finishing
By these unskilled hands
Requires an investment
Of more than time, material and labour,
But also heart and vision and dedication
To bring it into being.
This is a thing I rely upon.
I take pride in it.
I can confidently lean on it
Because I know it.
I made it.