Itch

The ripe fruit of the sycamore tree is an array of itching seed balls

Waiting for kids to harvest and manufacture into wondrous powder.

In a torn pocket the powder escapes down on to legs and itch, itch, itch!

Thrown into the air the seed balls open and fly into the faces and armpits

Of pontificators who now must pause and scratch.

Many a teacher has had these winged gentle seeds in intimate company.

A favorite activity is blowing them in a crowded place and “come what may”.

Thus, did Henry take revenge on some big bullies who were sitting quietly

Between dastardly acts, contemplating what to do next.

From a crack in a window above them, floating, came the glorious

Seeds of ITCH, settleing down on those who thought themselves superior

And were now relegated to the primal scratch.

The little kis looke on as the big guys suffered contortions.

It’s in the fall, when school starts, and things seem to be going well

That there is divine intervention in the form of itching powder

That shatters the peaceful order of things,

Entering those private areas, where noone is allowed.

And it’s so nice to know

That from these magical winged beauties a sycamore tree will be born

And the itching season will live on.