Two Season Sycamores

by Joan Leotta

Sycamore trees lined my street,

planted so long before my time that their roots

were already making a crazy quilt

out of the city laid cement sidewalks,

adding several degrees of difficulty

to my roller skating.

I loved their mottled bark,

saving strips, like sacred scrolls,

storing them where my mother

would not find them,

coloring on them with

watercolor brushes

pretending they were messages

from tribes who fished the

lake that once filled the block

where my house now reigned.

In summer, leaves were thick,

shading the mailman as he removed

packs of letters from the brown storage

box. I imagined that there was power

in the key dangling from his long chain,

power to find magic letters in the box

that would open doors between lands,

carry me off from my doorstep

to a place where neighbor children

did not tie new girls to trees and leave

them on while they went inside for lunch.

Winter’s bareness suited my sycamores.

Ice and snow jacketing each branch,

all the way to the tender twigs

stretched out to scratch the sky,

providing temporary resting places for local

sparrows, birds too stubborn to go south.

I sketched these from my window,

loving how the open spaces between

branches let the sun into my room.

Spring’s haze of tender green,

autumn’s mottled yellow green

before leaves die and drop—I

squeeze my head but no such images

spring forth. Those things happened…

well, others tell me so.

* * * * *

Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer, expressing her love of words and desire to encourage others on page and on stage. Her work has been published widely as poems, essays, articles, and books. On stage she most often performs folk and personal tales dealing with food, family, nature, and strong women. She has been published in Writing in Woman’s Voice, Silver Birch, The Ekphrastic Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Tema, and others. Find out more about her work at www.joanleotta.wordpress.com