by Kevin T. McEneaney
Do you sometimes feel like a walking stick
with white eyes near-popping, legs awkward long
as you stride through woods on weekend walk
while sneakers ooze odiferous mud?
The azure sky appears to be wonder
of eternal grandeur astonishment
when sleek hawks and eagles hover above
in majestic loops over hills, mountains,
lakes where canoes navigate to their home
with spark-sleepy torpor of a campfire.
Becoming a walking stick is healthy,
wise, a journey out of one’s goofy self
to a memory that sustains your life
when you wish you were a brown walking stick….
