| Amy's Sycamore Today I see the tree whose roots bound all my summers standing in a place I had forgotten. I curl up in the branches, its arms my cradle. In the susurrus of leaves grandmother whispers the lore of earth and tree; of the dryad who protects it, dying when the tree is hollow; of the Moccasin Flower, once an Indian maiden whose grief blooms every spring; of many faces uplifted at the altar of this giant sycamore. The tree is taller than Jack's beanstalk, splotched like dawn and darkness, bark grooved with runes foretelling more than can be asked, a double vision of what's real and what might yet be. Leaves are giant hands held out to join my own. This tree is a dancer both massive and light, tied to one step taken, eager for the next. I know leaves will loosen from the tree and fall in silence, but Amy's voice remains whispering long after her voice has gone.
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