sycamore A dream forms in a sycamore tree A billion stars are winking at me The wind doesn't really care Whether or not I'm sitting there It goes around And carries the sound Of a whispered apology That bounces off my knee And falls to the grass Right beside my foot.
~~Erin Metcalf~~ © 1993 About This Poem	The whispered apology was uttered by me, and went unheard. I wrote this wistful, melancholy piece while sitting on my front lawn, gazing out at the desert, after breaking up with someone rather thoughtlessly.