Beneath the Bare Branches of the Sycamore

A thick branch,
hanging low enough
to touch & stripped
of its bark, reaches
towards rooftop
shingles.

A spider spirals
over spongy grass,
tapping the window
of my water cup,
a star-shaped shadow.

White under-bark
grasping green,
brown, withering
leaves.

Pure canopy
with occasional
abrasion, your
vaulted arms
hang with swollen
gratitude.

Your trunk
jaundiced,
rejoicing.