SYCAMORE’S SECRET THOUGHTS
after “The Sycamore Tree” by Paul Whitener
Leaning improperly, probably blown so
by the sweet soft winds out of the south,
my limbs still lift me into the sky
so their leaves can keep drinking the sun.
The mountains fall away, descending in glory
sweeping downward in proper array,
then they rise once more and crest again,
joyfully welcoming eternity.