Sycamore

A tax man was hiding up in a sycamore

when Jesus came through town.  

Not able to be among the throngs, 

he perched and watched.  

Waiting, I bet, like I am waiting. 

Jesus saw him, no one else did, 

and called him down from the tree. 

"We're eating at your house tonight, 

now, go, and get ready." 

I imagine Zaccheus leaping down 

and running ahead to prepare the feast. 

The sycamores are shedding in my neighborhood.

Today Pam and I were talking 

when a large piece of bark fell to the ground. 

She turned her head chasing the sound. 

I realized, speaking with her, 

that she is in a tree and I am in a tree, 

and so damn many of us are up in our trees. 

Perched away from the swimming tide of people, 

or tucked away with our sadness and ancient crusty hurts. 

Cubbied away from the pain, away from the unknown, 

and the terror where those two intersect.  

And, when we come down, 

by invitation of smile or laughter, 

when we loose ourselves

and say yes to the front porch, 

yes to sharing water and sharing tears, 

when we catch the sight of the beckoning finger, 

and respond, drawing closer and not away, 

we are so easily able to answer 

the one most important question: 

what is life asking of us? 

Just to show up, to shed some of our skin,

to drop the brown bark off of our hearts, 

revealing the white green of new growth.