SYCAMORE IN LATE SUMMER

The sycamore’s broad leaves
are summer sun to me;
Other trees lack the personality,
the tough persistence;
His first leaves in late spring
peak out shyly, slowly,
then burst forth with boldness
to say summer has begun.

I will not scorn you, summer sentinel
because you have no blossoms
like the pear or apple or cherry trees
nor any fruit for people or for birds.
Beside the slow meandering river
where I go to watch nothing
but the passing of my short life,
your shade is enough for me.

And when the end of August comes,
and the last blasts of summer heat
hang shimmering over the meadow,
I remember other months and years
when summers were too long and life
seemed on the edge of something
that would never come but danced
in waves on the road to somewhere.