considering the sycamore

a warrior king would best attend his thirsty, footsore army in the desert inspire them to sacrifice, to violence, and to victory and I – I, too, would best attend to my own charges, busy leading their no less important campaigns in the sand and so I try, but you demand consideration: there, your roots that once were fed with finest Roman wines– there, your arms that have embraced an outcast as he climbed to see the rabbi– there, your mottled, marbled skin, and

there, your burst of winter-naked capillaries

threading into the blue, a living

net of breath and food and sun

no wonder, then, that you could stay

a warrior king, his million marching soldiers,

and this mother on a playground,

hold us rapt before you and command

attention, contemplation,

perhaps wary fascination,

as we push aside the nagging sense

that pausing here to meditate

upon a sycamore might cost us

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