Sycamore
Three syllables
No less pleasing
Rolling off
The tongue yet
Possessing
A soupcon’s more
Economy
Being four
Letters lighter
Dense as devils food
Lacking elbow room
Between the last
Two beats
Ninety feet
Bottom to top
Eighty
Odd years
Young and leaning
Against
Our house
Telltale
Leg of a timid
Giant trying
To squeeze himself
Into a moment
Ragged leafy breathing
Giving him away.
“English Plane”
My tree guy
Says sideways so
We crane
Our necks
Squinting
Undeniable
Quiet dignity
Now where
Shabbiness once
Prevailed, shading
All of our tomorrows.
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