To a Sycamore, Cara Valle (September 2026)

To a Sycamore

Of course, there have been times my ripples bridle
Against the grip of your strong patchbark roots,
Times when the litter of your rusty leaves
Stymies my rush and muffles my recital
Of imitation birdsong. But, in turn,
You brace the bed where my curved current weaves
Around you. From your rootedness, I learn
To flow in channeled force by sweetspire shoots.
Reach up above me with your whispering limbs.
Splinter the sunlight into shafts that flash
Brilliantly off my eddies when I laugh.
With your night branches, cut the moon in half
And drop it in my dark pool. Where it swims
Unanchored, you can hear a cool, soft splash.