Last night’s storm strew branches across my evening path.
One branch begged me to use it as a walking stick.
It was long, so I broke it once, twice and a third time —
trying to find the perfect length but wisely surrendered to imperfection.
I gleefully swung my new staff
testing the ways I could hold it:
resting my hand first high, then low;
gripping on a knot then resting on its curves.
I found no position totally satisfying
and a walking staff must endure for miles and miles.
So I vainly daydreamed of crafting the perfect cane.
I thought: “Perhaps I could make it with several grips,
each to satisfy my mood and to change with the terrain.
I would weight it heavy for strength, yet light for speed.”
But my ideal rod was becoming mentally unmanagable
with each new addition, a new weakness was born.
So finally, I rested into enjoying this particular stick:
its textures and its imperfections,
I thought: “Instead of trying to tool one perfect shaft,
it would be best to settle for natural sticks on my path
keeping a few — knowing that none will be perfect
but all of them would better
than a clunky idealized Chimera.”
by Sabio Lantz, July 2015
Prompt: Grace is hosting Open Link Night at d’Verse Poets Pub
Notes: This is a poetic reflection on a similar set of ideas in this more vulgar post: “Choosing your Favorite Shit Pile“.