Beside my chair against the wall
There stands my father’s cane.
The wood has aged as it’s quite old,
Yet to me it looks the same.
Just a simple fashioned walking stick,
No silver can be seen.
Its tip is worn, the handle slick,
But it’s all it’s ever been.
I see Dad yet, in my mind’s eye,
Walking slowly with that staff,
Showing the pain from years gone by,
But still a smile, a laugh.
It steadied him, made footsteps sure,
On his walks those final years.
Never far from reach, a magic cure
To put aside his falling fears.
Now time has passed. He has gone
Where all good fathers go.
He’ll not need his cane at last,
And his walk will not be slow.
Hence now that I have grown quite old,
Things change yet stay the same.
But my memories are as bright as gold,
And I have my father’s cane.
~ Bobbie Dean Foster
