You follow the familiar 
spiral into the center, 

stand on a stepping-stone tree 
big enough to let it hold 

the wooden cane you carry, 
the one your father once used. 

You lay down the cane, set it 
across the stones of that tree. 

The songs of cardinals rise 
like hymns in your father’s church. 

Memories of your father 
warm you against the chill. 

You whisper a prayer of thanks, 
pick up the cane, and turn, 

spiral back into the world, 
leaning on your father’s cane 

the way you once leaned on him. 

Bio: Gary S. Rosin