For the Love of American Sycamores

The sycamores peel silver as
A man who, weak, old, wrinkled, has
Seen autumn's chill and settled in
To Christ who cleanses of all sin.

The wind births in their limbs a song.
Leaves rustle crackled, crinkled, strong,
And trembling, warm and soft they sing
As if they're falling into spring.

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