Some people say
the sycamore's just a dirty junk tree.
Look at the great shards of bark it drops on the ground
and the seed pods it flings to the lawn...
Look at the great leaves as big as your face,
how they fall from the branches in autumn
and cover the plants in your gardens...
I look,
and I see its pied bark in the summer,
stealing the spotlight like a dancer on stage
as it captures the first light of day.
I look
and I see its skin in the winter,
whiter than white in the darkness
reflecting the light from the moon.
I look,
and I see how it stands with its kind in tall rows
that match the lyrical curves of the Big Creek
that sings through my valley.
Some people say the sycamore's just a dirty junk tree.
I am not one of those people.
---rose moore, July 1993,
from Valley Songs, my journal of our valley property
SYCAMORE VALLEY: NOVEMBER NIGHT
An honor guard of ghostly sycamores
stands within the dark November night
in silent rows along the water course.
Leafless and immobile,
they hold their bleached arms upward
to point their fingers to the sky.
Unmoved by whistling, wintry winds,
unmoved by cold that rises bitter from the water,
they stand oblivious as the Guards of Buckingham.
They gleam like polished sentinels,
listening in stoic silence
as the waters croon into the autumn darkness.
--Rose Moore, November 1992
From Valley Songs, my journal of our valley property
