The sycamore is broad of leaf,
Providing shade to those who seek
Respite from sunlight at its peak.

The summer season, all too brief,
Gives way to colours of the fall;
The turning sycamore stands tall.

At intervals along each bough,
In seed balls shaped like ornaments,
Pod clusters hang from filaments.

When winter comes, bare branches now
Stand out against the empty sky—
A silhouette to please the eye.

The sycamore has peeling bark
In shades that run from light to dark.
A sturdy, steady citizen,
The sycamore's a perfect ten.

©2019 Michael Fraley

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