Under The Sycamore. A Place of Grateful Rememberance

It is tall

and stretches to the heavens.

It is solitary and strong.

 

The leaves unfurl late

and wither early

with fashion and grace.

 

They dangle around

the solstice

like light green earrings.

 

Its bark breaks

at the hips

and peels

to reveal a smooth

decoupage of earthy pastels.

Tan and light brown on ivory

are the shades of color

I long to climb.

Those branches are beyond reach

and slippery as silk.

I will look up through the freckled limbs though,

and see clouds passing

like time,

and sky, blue, unending

like a patch of eternity.

 

What remains of my mother will be placed deep

into the humus to compost

with shards of fallen bark.

Death on death will serve nutrients into the roots.

I am thankful for place,

this place.

I will visit

and till memories into the soil

and grow up

again and again.

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