First memories stand
with Gwumpa's cane,
when I held it tightly, learning to walk.
Pictures inform me
of when we shared his crook'd stick
during those ascending
and declining days.
It was my rifle when defending
my ottoman fort.
It served as a fishing pole from a dry porch
on a rainy day.
A paddle for my throw-rug canoe,
and both banjo and horn
for my one-boy band.
One day it became only mine,
a gift bequeathed.
It has supported me since,
as my children and grandchildren
discover its many magical uses.
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