“Sycamore,” Grandpa said as his lumber
Yard thickened hands followed the tree’s life lines
Of rainy years and dry in the woodwork
Of our old home. A Mainer of few words,
His lingering touch traveled time upward
To sunlit sycamore leaves waving wide,
Scooping life from bright air, sending it rootward,
Broadening its girth, mottling its skin,
Plumping seeds like Christmas ornaments
That, crushed underfoot, would give life to more
Sycamores with mythic healing powers.
One word taught me magic I remember
Today, when a late May frost pinched new leaves,
Rending life’s garment that the sycamore weaves.
I have been living in dread of the blights crippling our ash trees as well as our pines of every variety. On top of that, the late-May frost did a number on our sycamores' leaves. I hope that this year was an aberration, that next year the seasons will flow normally. Hope is what remains.
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Thanks for being here.