The Sycamore Speaks

The Sycamore speaks of a long journey, the silence of two continents in between
a sacrifice unknown, unseen; a walk on fire, symmetry of uncertain feet that bleed
long hours of pondering, short hours of packing, small doses of spring, big meaning
the tree of Hippocrates- wrapping secrets in the sharp edges of the jagged leaves
summoning courage from the shivering arteries running inside the rind of her skin
the sycamore's eyes see streets of Jamaica, the mist in the borough of Queens
the first time, the first flight, the first timid leap, the first long distance sanctimony
Six terminals, four runways, six decades of quest, two score years of emptiness
twelve red roses, twenty four endless hours breathing time zones of nervousness
the hell of conscience, the blight of common sense, the heaven of finally meeting
the Sycamore speaks in colors dipped in the psychosis of morning wooing evening
the fear filled passages of secretive rummaging, the tear tripped roads of heeding
seasons, storms, sunrise, sunset, dissolve in the sanguine spell of her solitary lord
she believes, she retreats, she weeps under the doom of the sharp edged sword
the Sycamore has a heartbeat, her verses resurrect the wind, she has songs to sing
the Sycamore laughs, the Sycamore weeps, the world is an axe on her branches
the light of the Gods reside in her heart, the hell of mankind stumbles in her art
nobody knows her, nobody feels her grief, heaven is heedless, hell is long, life is brief.
© Jaspreet Mann

"No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,our animal passion rooted in the city." Adrienne Rich