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The sycamore calendar starts in November,
not with the buds but the building of buds
deep in the sap, with branches shorn and bare
bark ready to warm quick in short days, the mud-
mulch rich with leaves that gulped up the sun.
Leaves, done with their work, have released their hold
and pattern the canopy’s shadow with gold.
The trees, like I want to be, steadied by the year
they leave behind, letting the dead wood drop.
Hear how summer crunches when we walk on it.