At the end of the
driveway,
a sycamore stands.
Grounded, pealing gray with
white flesh underneath; a sentinel
spreading branches
over our coming and going.
Its roots, deeper than the vision
of my eyes and the life of my family.
Its summer shade
cools our heads,
tanned arms and busy hands.
Grand and stately,
a harbinger of strength;
it has eyes of an observer
and arms of a protector.
As I approaching from a distant corner
it sees me,
instructing my path.
Home rests just ahead.
Roger Singer 