The Stick

A short little stub is all that's left
Of what once was a graceful arm,
Upon whose fingers sang the birds
And squirrels escaped from harm.

You'd never know that this chewed-up thing
That lies at my feet for fun
Once held a verdant canopy
That shielded summer's sun.

I don't want to touch the slobbered-up thing
But he begs with a mournful eye,
So I pick it up and once again
Hurl it into the sky.

And I almost think I can hear the stick
Laugh with joyful glee
When I throw too hard and it doesn't come down
As it gets caught up in the tree!