And I have watched a bobbing sycamore tree,
whispering, secrets beneath, the flaxen moon
held my breath as mountains descend in awe,
or maybe it’s a tear that melts away from eye.
I listen to the songs of the weeping shadows,
sighing, soft as though, there’s no tomorrow.
I, mount up, to the deep, and darkening sky,
attempt to gulp the midnight wind —
and watch as woe upon love’s lip dies.
Photo credits: Paul Whitener (1911-1959) The Sycamore Tree
Posted on Artistic Interpretations @ Real Toads
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