The Walking Stick (Poem)

The way I love is deeply practical.
I can cite my Capricorn Venus or
tell you about my childhood;
but the fact remains,
the way I love is deeply practical.

If a tree is falling over,
you don’t hold it up.
You check the roots:
have they rotted?
Did a flood wash the soil out?

I’m not going to take care
of you. I know I am too fickle —
a willow, not an oak — I love
to sway and dance.

What is the reason
you have not joined me
in ecstatic wonderment?

Let me tickle your furrowed brow;
riddle your stagnant mind;
delight your downtrodden heart.

Trees dream and their roots grow
toward entangling, becoming
the largest & strongest union,
able to communicate
because they are connected.

What are you connected to
that fortifies your tender apricot skin?
How do you remain an unbruised plum
in a bag of heavy groceries?

I am a magician
in my own life. I have carved
my walking stick
with defined purpose
and refuse to abandon
myself along the way.

Sometimes,
seer; sometimes without sight.
But forward I step (stick, foot,
foot, stick, foot, foot…)
trusting the ground will catch me.