The Sycamore

Andrew Wyeth

The Sycamore

In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
Hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark face.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place, and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

Wendell Berry

Self-portrait by means of a tree. How many times this has been done, and yet it never tires. I love this poem. All of Berry's love for the land comes out in it. And there are so many layers. "Whose earth I am shaped in" - like Adam, made of the earth and responsible for it.  "There is no year it has flourished in that has not harmed it." What a line that is! And these too, "It bears the gnarls of its history healed over." "It has gathered all accidents into its purpose." Now that is hope. That is sheer wonder. That is how God works. I would be ruled by that principle too.