Little sycamores
Little sycamores break free:
They have choppered down the wind without order
to set root in the soils of this terrace, in all innocence,
and populate my unshifting patio plates.
Let them know that I decide in this garden.
I pluck a forest out of the beds with one fist.
The steps from the house take me up and down
a history of the seas cemented.
Now I sit down on a step to rest
my feet on the crazy paving, my back
against the wooden window, and catch
my fingers’ work under the rule of crumble:
paint, posts, and flagstones shifting.
While an old sycamore pod
cracks open a fresh green eye,
right beside my foot, and winks at me