“platanus occidentalis [the boyscout]”

30”x40”, oil on wood panel, 2025

"oh, yes, THAT tree," you say, accepting the job with glee:

trek back to that place, deep in the park where you used to live,

to paint that tree you call "The Boyscout," well-aware

no one else calls it that, not anyone you know, anyway,

this giant sycamore lording over its own section of the Valley -

as you emerge from the enchanted wood, it shines, isolate,

not alone, but shielded by a leafy court of loyal, bowing knights.

perhaps a century ago, at the bottom of a grass bowl, a former pond,

one small samara, favored by sun's fortune, and tested by storm, hoof,

tooth, and plow, found its throne and crown by waiting, in the soil.

less than a decade ago or so, a group of lazy eagle scouts

decided to get all 'kumbaya' and build a fire-pit next to it,

and now the park supplies picnic tables and a sign saying,

"Only They Can Use It," mowing yearly to maintain the Queen's

meadowed moat, comprising thorns and poison ivy, so subjects

are directed to the magnificence of her shade, a sort of private,

dark-green banquet-hall for one, or two, to do magnificent things,

like suppose, and wait; wait, and wonder; wonder, and propose.

versatile spot, multi-use, like a pocket knife; but now, much more.

you think about the stupid nickname you've given this tree,

and wonder if you won't start calling it "Her Majesty," instead.