Sycamore Grove

A burning desire within my soul, a rippling affect was taking hold And with each mile, down the winding road, a sycamore, birch, or elm would grow. And then behold the greatest stage, upon this porch, aligned in shade Not laughing eyes nor beaming torch But a tear would drop with each recourse. Then words like melodies would resonate, and each one shared their sacred place Some dark, some light, some funny quirks, but all the while each shared their works. The passion I'll praise, then beckoned inside how I want to join with eagle's eyes and owl's ears will take it's hold on a porch made in a sycamore grove.