A Sycamore Grows in Hopewell

 

An expanse of black brown and rock,

winter woods, no foliage, no color

except where an artist walks

with a silver highlighter

seeking only sycamores.

Mottled patches of bark flake

like snug snake skin.

White trunks expand, branches twist,

trees look snow covered, 

canopies glow radiant in the sunshine

of late winter when ground is bare.

Last to flower or push green,

a sycamore can grow to champion size. 

The trees great age and beauty are poetry,

naturalists record its girth, height and canopy,

people recite arbor histories in journals

and plant them in parks, yards, botanical gardens.

One giant along the Stony Brook

rises below the cow pasture on the stream bank. 

With fan sized leaves,

it casts shade the herd favors

and has limbs so long, 

they skim the grass. 

Artists come and sketch,

hikers bring a camera.  

Lovers drawn here

take a seat on a low branch,

exchange promises,

Two return to marry under the canopy,

their vows graced by boughs. 

 

https://foundersfavourites.blogspot.ca/p/2017.html

 

Date Published: November 1,  2017