Cane Man

This is a poem I wrote about my father. He was a local craftsman who was well known in our area for making unique yet beautiful walking sticks.

Many called him...

the cane man.

Cane Man

Ducking through the laurel caverns

to the bank of the creek

where it has to go but we don't

only fighting our way to see whats there

bends and turns past gothic root castles

grabbing at me I grab one and swing across

across the babbling always going somewhere

shifting the mica shining sand

but always here he's always here

I smell the plants that smell like skunk

In the air I smell his sweat in the air

a country sweat that holds specks of bark

and sawdust to dark arms that pull his saw

through the laurels that will be canes

it's a cool sweat as arm hairs brush my cheek

when he lifts me to his shoulders

I hold onto his forehead

he can still tote the saw and drag the sticks

ducking through the laurel caverns

Dad... he's always here

searching for the perfect walking stick

along the bank of the creek

it maybe growing gnarled and knotty

we never found it...

he knows where it is now

august 2000