In late August when the sycamore
starts tossing leaves brittled by
unrelenting sun, I’m always
surprised to find the lawn
littered with the dead and
dying. It happens annually,
but it feels unseasonably early.

I’ve called this sycamore mine
for 38 summers. Perhaps
our real purpose is not to
imagine that we own anything,
but to embrace the notion of
caretaking, that we are here
to take care of what needs
taking care of. Especially
each other, I think as
my feet crunch over what
lies beneath, as I take up
the wide fan of a rake,
and begin taking care
again.