By Douglas J. Lanzo
Copyright 2020

First published in Literary Yard on July 16, 2021

When I was a boy and still
 a few years  – but one dream – away from becoming a man,
my grandfather presented me with
his prized walking stick,
trimmed with his pocketknife from
a handsome stick of cherrybark oak;

Clasping it, I felt an instant connection
to my beloved yet mysterious grandfather and
to his daring adventures and expeditions,
those told over campfires, and
those only this stick knew;

Its surface was cold and smooth, almost
icy to my tender fingers;
I shivered as I heard a sharp crack –

When I looked forward
I saw, not a forest, but a vast cloud
of snow crystals – whipped, wrung and stretched out by
blustery winds that sheared through the frozen tundra
with unrelenting fury;

More crackling sounds –
coming from right beneath me;
Startled, I looked down, finding
myself on a sled whisked forward,
thrust across the icy terrain by
Alaskan Malamutes, expending every
last ounce of strength as
they tasted victory, and
pounded forward, racing for glory;

The night clouds broke and
the Nome sky opened with
stars so fresh and crisp
that I pried my frigid mouth
slightly ajar to test
whether they might melt on my tongue;
I blinked as an icy snowflake
touched my tongue and relinquished
its delicious spirit ;

Opening my eyes, I beheld
the walking stick thrust high into
the air by my outstretched hand;

Suddenly, the firmament
erupted in a shimmering green blaze
of brilliance burning
piercing blue and dazzling purple
incense in a sacred fire across
the dark altar of the bending sky;

Turning my gaze to the earth, I
beheld a brilliant tapestry of colors:
gold, burnt orange, scarlet and purple,
as my eyes feasted upon
autumn’s lavish arboreal celebration
of the harvest;

My grandfather’s eyes glistened
as he peered into my soul and asked,
“Are you ready to accept my walking stick?”