Yellow Trees

 

Emily Carr painting, Art Gallery of Greater Victoria

Trees are never that yellow

edge of forest descending

to mineral runoff

red brown stench undulating

like a roller coaster,

 

trees vertical swirls

and horizontal discs, movement

essential. It could be

 

the wind

a place of worship

 

the way they readjust

skirts in preparation

and below, tiny figures,

 

undershoots stage their appearance

rolling within, soon adults

 

who will finally understand

when elders get topped off

inward torment.

 

In Christina Rossetti’s “silent land”

she does not see shadows

 

nor the rain

abundant in death—

even the moon when it rises

 

is not sterile

curtain of trees half drawn

 

and the bay, always near,

with a million inlets beyond.

Does death turn us immune?

 

What does it means to be a daughter

unable to see closely sculpted bushes

 

amid unconditional love

and merciless criticism—

my mother saying after her stroke,

 

“I have no skills”

falling from a height of abundance,

 

green turning to fall 

early that year—

six months later

 

preparing the memorial

I would know her better.

 

I hear a cry of endless sorrow 

wet faces

search for the part of myself

 

lost without my mother

dissolving into sheer color and shape

 

with nothing to hold

down ribbons of

chartreuse, orange, purple.