Sycamore

sycamorehill_0

Submitted by Jill C. Lyman

We come to the place
we call Silent
to forget the sound
of cars on the highway
setting up our camp chairs
with an eye toward
the water
where a heron fishes
squirrels tatter over territory
The wide hand of a sycamore leaf
drops from the tree
lands at my feet.
Its scent lingers—
summer’s green spills
on my hands
as I peel the flesh
along the veins, pouring
its dust onto the breeze.
Only the thin bone
of a stem remains.
A new breeze gallops
before the cold front, rustles through
Silent —
a frantic four or five fallen
leaves mount the wind,
crossing the grass.
They gather at my feet
expecting.


Photo Credit: Sycamore Hill, Winterthur – Geraldine McKeown

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