In the middle of my back yard,

Was a sycamore tree that grew.

My son and I planted the sapling

When it was  brand new.

 

We mixed the fertilizer with soil,

And we both dug the hole deep;

Put root stimulator inside;

And we raked dirt in a heap.

 

It took some effort to plant it.

We both were feeling so proud

Of that beautiful little tree,

That we laughed and cried out loud.

 

We nurtured and watered the tree

With a great deal of care.

It survived a lightning strike

That left the top-third bare.

 

My son and I were connected  

To the spirit in the tree,

For it continued to grow

A great deal taller than He.

 

When my son went off to college,

I’d sit in the tall tree’s shade;

And reminisce about good times,

The laughter we had made.

 

I’d move my hands on its bark,

And stroke the tree with my fingers.

I’d talk to the tree in the moonlight,

And revel in memories tender.

 

One winter an ice-storm hit,

And took half of the sycamore down.

I felt it crack in the middle.

I wept without making a sound.

 

I guess it had served its purpose,                          

The tree kept my memories alive,

At a time I was growing older,

And trying hard to survive:

 

A boy becoming a man,

And leaving to make his way;

Proud, I was, of his going,

Praying he’d return some day.

Yu/stan/kema