SYCAMORE SPRING

Do not fear the parade of the trees

as they travel from winter to summer. Stand

in awe beneath the sycamore,

its bark-scales glinting in new sum.

Count the round fruits, not yet obscured by

new leaves, against the blue sky.

Climb into its arms, and be held as you once were.

Hold yourself in new stead this morning, with

the tops of the roots pressed against the small of your back.

Hear the wind in new grass, and feel it behind your ears.

Count your breaths in two’s.

Count the sycamore’s in one.

Breathe together, as Nature,

meterless and steady.