At the end of the


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.

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