The Stick and The Wind

To all the parents and grandparents. To their love. To the void they create.

***

Many untouched things, the things we rarely pick

One of those things is my father's old walking stick

By the dusty brown windowsill, it stands stringed

The stick has a friend, an annoying friend in wind

Wind whistles by the numerous window openings

Playing with the stick and fiddling with its strings

The stick forbids the wind, tells not to disturb him

"Don't trouble me, I can't talk to you before it's dim!"

"Why?" The wind asked the stick, ever so playful

"Seeing blossoms? Knitting mittens out from wool?"

"Keep shush!" The stick barked haughtily at the wind

But the naughty wind pestered the stick and grinned

"What do you see? Why are you so focused? Why?"

The staunchly stick didn't bother or even bat an eye

"Don't you see, oh foolish wind, what I always see?

I'm my owner's soul, I watch my kids grow up in glee."