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At least once a day I look out on the sycamore…stoic giant existing in shapes of seasonal cusps…and I meditate on the hues of bark and foliage, the angles and lines of sunlight and shadows, the cut rope that still sways in absence of its swing. It’s an unloved tree; unowned, misunderstood, neglected: an island…fear gets the better of some, calling upon its death. I calculate distance and height, I hypothesize directional destruction, and I address probabilities: age and health. I hear no alarms sounding. My mind always circles back…to the majestic stature that flexes with every gust…tornado bearing down, sky of night backdrop to pallid complexion, me with infant in arms and a womb full, glimpsing the give, imploring of its god, as cracking maple joints took my hearing…slate, shutters, glass, roofs…betraying…but never the sycamore…imposing and gentle, true to roots…nor’easters that thrash and splinter the branches, the frozen weight of ice and snow…the latest taking with it each nest that dappled the limbs…but still it reaches, widens, heightens…most mornings I get lost in labyrinthine thoughts, eyes towards the sycamore, coffee in hand, but I almost always give to dreams…the branch from which I’d swing…the crook I’d nestle within, book after book read from my perch…the limb of greatest height, my toes would grip, closing the distance between the moon and my fingertips…

E.A. O'Connell