Now that constitution, age and family won’t let me drive, stick it to me!
Not like a stiletto stab. Just ease the burl into my wobbly grip. Gnarled
beauty born out of a tree’s distress. Polished waves of pain like mine—
if going lame shines.

Not a down-home scepter
to bless, judge or rule
like a pharaoh, pontiff
or royal. Not a trek pole
to bushwack through
trackless Texas. Perhaps
a certainty. A moving
guardrail through, say,
ancient cobblestones.
A reassurance that
freeform eucalyptus
grain—crafted, sculpted—
will map this step
into the next.