Barrow Street, January 2005

This street is lined with sycamores.
Their branches reach, each tree trying
to find the other side; some
rise up. Others list, older--

the trunk is a lucid map,
chart of islands, white sand or
group of lakes in a wide
prairie of pale dry grass.

I am walking east, away
from the water. Stopping, I see,
on each rising pillar, a story
which reminds me of a persistant tale:

A year has four seasons:
a silver winter morning; a grey wet afternoon
in late March. Warm July night.
Sunday morning in November.

A photograph, something to keep,
would bring the story to a close.
Now, stories, lucid birds, leave;
leave and let me rest.