the old sycamore on our corner, I touch its muscled
dappled torso
where the smooth flesh emerges from the bark’s
rough scales.
Its branches drop on the ground their curled sheets
of old skin,
crumbled parchment or torn fine-grit sandpaper,
and where they were
the secret greeny-white flesh shines. Today I saw
how one of its highest
boughs had been blown down across the sidewalk
by last night’s
storm whose winds gusted over eighty miles per hour.
I stopped
and reached down to break off two of the twigs
with their three-pointed
maple-like leaves and examined the gash
where the limb
had been wrenched from its socket. Touching the ragged
splinters
of live wood wet with sap, I thought of
Walt Whitman
in 1877, after the two strokes that paralyzed
first the left,
then the right side of his body, and between them
the death of Louisa,
his mother. To heal his mind and fumbling
body, Whitman
at fifty-eight hobbled out to Timber
Creek, where he stripped
naked except for his boots and broad-brimmed
straw hat.
There he sunbathed and walked through “the stiff-
elastic bristles”
of chest-high weeds and bushes that “rasped arms, breast, sides
till they turn’d
scarlet.” He then would wade into the creek and sink his feet
into the mud’s
cool luxurious black ooze. Thus cleansed, every day
for two summers,
he wrestled hickory saplings naked, pulling down
the young trunks,
bending them into the shape of bows—his “natural gymnasia.” He swayed
and yielded
to the “tough-limber upright stems,” just as he wrestled
fully clothed
with Harry Stafford, the eighteen-year-old who helped to set
his book Two Rivulets
in type and who accepted his ring, then gave it back, then accepted
it again before
finally saying goodbye that summer. Those hickory saplings
and later beech
and holly boughs he bent until each muscle quivered
made him “feel
the sap and sinew rising through me, like mercury
to heat.”
Spanish moss-bearded father, you wrestled Harry and all those young trees
like Jacob
with his angel. Though you once pinned Harry
to the floor,
you couldn’t pin the trees. They sprang back up
almost as straight
as they had been before they met you. They left you
old and broken.
Old man, it’s you and my own life I touch
when I touch
the sycamore. Be whole again. Let your sap run through
the torn branch and into me.