The sycamore tree
In Grandpa’s back yard
Was my sacred space
Long before I knew
The word “sacred.”

Sitting under the green canopy
Formed by its huge green leaves,
I understood
Life is lived
In varying dimensions.

Such mysteries did not disturb
My childhood acceptance:
I saw the angels, after all,
Heard their songs and saw their wings
Dancing among the leaves.

Sometimes I thought of Zacchaeus
And listened,
Wondering if, perhaps,
That was my name
Being called.

I still wonder
All these years later,
Years since the sycamore
Gave its life to the efficiency
Of an interstate cloverleaf.

I still wonder
All these years later,
Years of studying philosophies
And ways of knowing,
Still not knowing

Whether there is,
In heaven or on earth,
Any truth more certain
Than the truth
Of Grandpa’s sycamore tree.