Eldering; poem; "Sycamore"
Sycamore

That fine high sycamore near my front door ...
I knew that tree before it was a tree.
I grew it from a seed,
to shade our house in summer.
You step beneath that tree on a hot day --
even a hot day without a breeze --
the air is cooler there by ten degrees,
or more.

Before,
when both the sycamore and I were younger,
every year I trimmed that tree for Christmas
with ornaments that could bear the snow and rain,
and topped it with a star.
Till it outgrew me,
so very far that even on a ladder
I was too small,
it was too tall.

That sycamore glows white in wintertime,
even at night. And now it grows
its own array of small round sturdy ornaments,
all of them able to bear the snow and rain,
all of them the color of ripe persimmons.
Now it winds itself with bittersweet garlands,
decked with shining redbird-colored berries.

Decorating its own tall self outside,
with no help from me,
it reaches up toward yet another star
I'm far too small to provide.