My elbows are raw from the windowsill.
Through the frosted glass the Sycamore
in the field is crucified by the seasons.
Winter brittles its branches,
making the tree unclimbable.
As the grass wilts, the sky pales to match
and the animals flee to escape the same
colorless circumstance. Through the icy
glass the lone, gray tree in the field reaches for Heaven,
asking God for Spring.
By the arrival of march my elbows have healed.
The window thaws and I swim across
the ocean of Bermuda grass to the tree.
The Sycamore invites me to climb its born-again form,
to feel its sturdy branches and their flourish of leaves.
Once among the birds and the clouds and the setting sun,
I drink from the opalescent sky. I take a sip of orange,
a swig of blue, a swallow of pink. When
my thirst is finally at peace I rejoin the regrowth of the land.
Once among the beasts and the grass and the soil,
I realize the world tastes wonderful.
Through the frosted glass the Sycamore
in the field is crucified by the seasons.
Winter brittles its branches,
making the tree unclimbable.
As the grass wilts, the sky pales to match
and the animals flee to escape the same
colorless circumstance. Through the icy
glass the lone, gray tree in the field reaches for Heaven,
asking God for Spring.
By the arrival of march my elbows have healed.
The window thaws and I swim across
the ocean of Bermuda grass to the tree.
The Sycamore invites me to climb its born-again form,
to feel its sturdy branches and their flourish of leaves.
Once among the birds and the clouds and the setting sun,
I drink from the opalescent sky. I take a sip of orange,
a swig of blue, a swallow of pink. When
my thirst is finally at peace I rejoin the regrowth of the land.
Once among the beasts and the grass and the soil,
I realize the world tastes wonderful.