here by the bended elbow
as the water passes
i find the lonely sycamore
bowed towards the sky
and i feel his despondency,
age and twisted arms
unfurled in asking
why am i still here
he searches as do i
for the mention of spring
towards distant horizons
and i am but a twig,
a child again in his branches,
feeling the strength flow
then years come
the wind blows
age denies him grace
as if i am aging
with eyes that never see
the wisdom in his torso
how i've grown with his memory
steadfastly loyal
coping with seasons
and changing tides
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