The Sycamore

I planted a seed and a Sycamore grew.  
I watered it and fed it everyday
and it showed its appreciation by growing.  

It grew tall and beautiful,
hiding me in its shade.  
But the more it grew
the more it's shade became a deep, cold shadow.  

Soon I realized
I had created a far-reaching, foreboding monster.  
It was no longer appreciative but became expectant,
and I it's water-bearing slave.  

The cold was making me weak and sick,
so I lit a fire.  
The torch's glow hurt my eyes.  
It had been so long since I had seen the light.  

The fire's warmth chased away the cold
and I could feel my hands and feet again.  
The Sycamore's branches clamored, and as the wind howled through them
I could almost hear the leaves hissing and cursing the flame.  
But I would not extinguish it!  

The Sycamore reached for me,
toward my throat to choke the life from me.
ME, who had nurtured it,
fed it,
and gave it water when it thirsted!  

So I screamed at the Sycamore
that if it wanted the flame it could have it
and I threw the torch as far into its gnarled web of roots as it would reach.  

The monster howled!  
Now the wind rushed from its boughs as a cry of terror
and from my lungs as a sigh of relief.  
The Sycamore became beautiful again
as its leaves rose like fireflies and the faces of the blaze sang it to sleep.  

I too slept peacefully
by the warmth of the bonfire.  
Tomorrow,
I will continue my journey.