The staff of this bruised reed.

There is an old story about a pole, tall and thin--a post, really, made pale with age by the sun. The story is not told often anymore. Or maybe it never has been told often, but, of course, I have not been around long enough to know myself. But it is on my mind and I thought I would tell it. It appears to be quite simple.

The pole was put in place where all people travelled by foot. At the time, no trips were made by vehicle or by horse, not through this area at least. Everyone walked, sometimes with heavy packs sticking rigid to their backs. This pole, then fresh and coloured a soft gold, was planted in the very middle of an area of an unornamented plain, placed for people to lean on and rest awhile amid their lengthy travels. Yes--a leaning post in the midst of a vast emptiness. It did its duty well, helping through the strength of those walking, keeping hope in their eyes.

Time passed and, as we hear, a small community grew around this pole. First a farmer, whose family provided small gifts of meals for those passing by, then a quiet restaurant, a hotel, and on. Things change. The post stayed, but with all these establishments now in place it was no longer found to be needed. A school was established near to it, however, and this old leaning post was turned into a pole for that game called tetherball, also now not often played. What an odd game.

And it is interesting how this tall post, sturdy in young dirt as it aided many trips before, with all passersby leaning close against it, their sweat and scent left on it, was suddenly made into something requiring those around it to remain distanced in a circle, focused not on the post itself, but on this object strung up and dangling from its head. And the back and forth knocking of this object, its rope twisting around the pole, made it loosen in that older dirt, dried and deadened over years. The pole, gaining the same character through age as any living thing would, looked tired of the absurdity of play and wanted once again to be leaned upon, to carry and make sturdy the heaving breaths of those passing by.

The string broke, the game ended. The post is still there. Leaning out uncomfortably neither looked at nor leaned upon, no one there knows its purpose. But it stays.

That's an old story I know, and I don't know. There might be some sense to it, but maybe not.