Poem — Walking Stick

One last poem from the mountains.

I stop pushing my way,
For a moment,
Through the near waist-deep snow
And gaze around at the trees.
My eyes come to rest
On the stick in my hand:
My walking stick.
There are a number of strange
And oddly beautiful
Carvings across my walking stick,
Chewed  out paths by termites
Which I found after peeling the bark off.
They somehow remind me
Of Native American mound structures,
Twisting into the outlines of
Creatures both familiar and foreign.
Time to push on through this blasted snow.


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