The Sluggish Succumbing of Sylvia the Sycamore

For many many years, I worried about the well being of that tree---

she was so very, very sick

ill even

In early May, the children would flock to her

flanking her with affection and a constant stroking of her appendages

too much attention some would say

And in the heat of the night of June

they would climb her up and down until they wore her out with their fountains

and she was near the good kind of atrophy

In July, they would pin her wings back with clothespins

and tell each other funny anecdotes with their soup cans and string

even though they were too young for anecdotes

But in late August, Sylvia's demeanor took a turn

when they turned their backs on her

and their visits were few and far between

In the evenings, she prayed for rain

even in its obligatory nature,

she knew it to be a perennial friend who understood it all,

especially the evolving opinion towards a puddle

And in September, her breathing was rough around the edges

and her hair was all falling out

and they were passersby

There in that field, with the sound of those strangers' mirth

she resolved to join the ranks of agists the world over

and she bowed out---

with an indelible ring around her neck

and the lesions of a broken heart