Each appendage strives for grace
angling its long reach for the light
dressed within summer green
canopies that shade the pools
along the creek. But some trees
drink too much, consume
more weight than limbs can hold
before snapping like rifle shots
that echo in the canyon.
Gray chorus line of winter nymphs
locking hands, dancing naked
at a distance, up close show
the scars of younger appetites
for growth, blueprints for bigness
that challenged gravity—yet
decomposed broken bones
leave open holes for nests
to incubate a clan of Wood Ducks.
In college I made a promise to live where Sycamore grow. I am retuning to Sycamore land from the Great Basin soon.
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I only have one Sycamore. Darn! But they need more water than is available here in the summer. Your girls are lovely, mine is too young yet to be interesting.
In France their Plane Trees, a relative of our Sycamore, stand in rows along roadsides and cast their shadows across the pavement. It can make you dizzy driving there. I understand they had some problems with their trees and the ones planted now are hybrids between ours and theirs. Viva la Plane trees!!!!!!!