Amy's Sycamore

Amy's Sycamore


Today I see the tree whose roots
bound all my summers standing
in a place I had forgotten.

I curl up in the branches,
its arms my cradle.
In the susurrus of leaves
grandmother whispers
the lore of earth and tree;
of the dryad who protects it, dying
when the tree is hollow;

of the Moccasin Flower, once an Indian
maiden whose grief blooms every spring;
of many faces uplifted at the altar
of this giant sycamore.

The tree is taller than Jack's beanstalk,
splotched like dawn and darkness,
bark grooved with runes
foretelling more than can be asked,
a double vision of what's real and what might yet be.

Leaves are giant hands held out to join my own.
This tree is a dancer
both massive and light,
tied to one step taken, eager for the next.

I know leaves will loosen from the tree
and fall in silence,
but Amy's voice remains
whispering long after her voice has gone.


ã Patricia Crane 2003