Sycamores
Jun 7th, 2009 | By W.B. Burkholder | Category: Poetry | 405 viewsThe sidewalks under ancient sycamores roll out like waves on a sea.
Undulating, rising and falling above thick, aged roots.
The cracks collide with the mason’s seam creating a home for the brown billows of sycamore seedling.
Their skin peels in long, brown, and yellow streams,
Curling in on themselves, flogged by autumn’s hand,
‘Tis late September in my memory…
These old men have watched over me for years.
They have seen my father carried to heaven’s gate,
seen summer wedding and darkened days of heart’s discontent.
These giants with all their tendril arms have reached out and comforted me in my hour.
Have bestowed smile and blessing upon me.
The sycamores have taught me well.
Aged giants, towering, teaching, healing.
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About W.B. Burkholder: Content Editor, Troubadour 21 - Bill is a Poet, Author, Digital photographer. You can find his work at Nirvanasgate |
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