Sycamore on Elm Street

There is a tree under which I used to sit far away from here.

I say far because it was a long time ago.

Childhood’s ghosts and a thousand miles,

are indeed a vast distance.

I would go there, nestle between gnarled trunk and

upright, pocked telephone pole.

Sitting headbent with arms encircled around crooked knees.

Deep in an island three. Comfort was easy there.

There, my only obligation silence,  solace under the

warmth of the rising sycamore. Standing weathered and broad.

I owed no one anything, fell short of nothing, all pretense removed.

Troubles disintegrated like cracked fall leaves ground small

and fertilizing a young boy's growth.  A trees growth.

Now, in the apple of my worldliness, my ken demands a different being;

tasks to accomplish, money to make, responsibilities to oversee,

worlds to save with my pen and organization and do gooder heart.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that tree and just

curl up snug and small.

Sometimes I do.