The Walking Stick
Grandfather and Grandaughter walking in the woods
Looking to where the dock once stood.
“Let’s pick a walking stick”, Papa says to me,
“This looks like a fine young tree.
He takes out this knife and starts cutting away,
Forming the top as a handle,
The bottom becomes the width of a candle.
Papa hands me the finished walking stick.
After carefully choosing one of his own
We start walking slowly away from home,
Deep into the forest we go, listening
For the sounds of the animals we know.
Of nature and life we talked
We walked this way until it got dark.
In the distance we could hear
The gentle ringing of the bells
Grandma rang for us with care.
Dinner was waiting on the table
For all of our family to share
The warmth of our evening meal.
Many a day we filled with our walks
We once had during my youth.
Oh how I miss those talks
In which you taught me the ways of nature
I now look to the chair where you once sat,
Wishing that I could hear your voice once more.
Now you watch to see how I’ve grown,
Your walking stick stands in the corner, alone.