When I joined him
for an evening walk
down the lane,
my father’s cane
flew up and down
with a twist of the wrist.

A ritual of time and place.
Summer’s late cool,
the hat, the cane,
a neighbor’s roof,
his caged birds ‘evening!’
a garden’s greeting, and then
the sound of cane on curb.

Walking was there
called WANDELING
with room for thought
and taking in
the trembling leaves of trees,
a wisdom tossed by cane.