Sycamore Summer
8-13-07
(On plane on way to Philly)

A summer breeze,
traverses the sycamore leaves,
they strike up their song,
on a harsh, dry day.

The mid-summer sun,
burns with intensity,
the ground below,
vast, dry, thirsting.

Through a parallel path,
we wait for reprieve,
theirs comes in rain and cloud,
mine through blood and vein.

We both live in cycles,
theirs measured in annum’s,
mine being shorter,
just four treacherous weeks.

A soft summer wind,
kisses the sycamore leaves,
a song strikes my ear,
hope touches my heart.