Sycamore

The tree that gave Zacchaeus his chance

Still standing.
Beside the main street.
Feeling the pulse
Of spring rains,
The crown of summer,
The testing pull
Of autumn storms.
Children explore
My limbs and shelter.
Adventurers pass,
Out to new possibilities.
Some, retracing steps
In homeward reunion
Or retreat.
Presently a strange din;
One stalwart man
And His entourage.
Onlookers press in,
Curious and hopeful.
What’s this?
Someone scrambles up,
Tugs my extremities,
Scrapes my bark,
Settles,
Balancing to watch.
Much like the children.
(Generations of them.)
I serve their purpose.
I serve his purpose.
Giving the better view.
And the Master looks up,
My Maker.
Issuing the call:
“Zacchaeus, come down.
I will come to your house.”

Author's Note

Many a witness suffers ill treatment that another might get a better look at the Saviour.