The Staff

Our lives are like a wooden staff, all bright and shiny new.
Then heat and cold and waves of time, leaves its residue.
What started out, as a young new limb, ended up, withered, with eyes that are dim.
The staff was found beside a new oak tree, by a youthful lad, of only three.
He brought it home for his father to make, a staff for leaning, that would not break.
As the youth advanced, to his teen age years,
His staff showed the pain, of his heartache and tears.
A small little crack at the crook, by the hand, felt the weight of the boy,
But both continued to stand.
The man was a father, with weights on his mind, Responsibilities galore, but still he was kind.
The cracks became llonger, and the cracks were not few.
The staff became darker, not so bright, not so new.
The man and the staff, both felt the weight, both carried it well.
Both marred by the heat, and the aches of artritis,
Made both the man and the staff, begin to swell.
The man became fifty, and looked back on his life.
He'd weathered many storms, had his share of strife.
The staff became fifty, recognizing the hand,
As it learned on him harder, but he'd come to understand.
The staff was smoother, not so rough to the touch.
But still strong and able, after going through much.
The hair is now white, the children are grown.
The staff becomes weaker, as it creaks and it groans.
Yes, our lives remind us of that tired old staff.
Memories that make us cry, then make us laugh.
The staff that once was young and strong, grows weak and waxes old.
Waiting by the bedroom door, listening for the footsteps, to be held, just once more.