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,
Two return to marry under the canopy,
their vows graced by boughs.
Date Published: November 1, 2017