Eloise Silver Van Meter

I’ve found myself wondering what trauma she’s gone through.
She sits there:
stout,
harmonious,
somber

NOW YELLOW
however she wears this yellow with the notion of moving on––
a moving on that is not fair to her––

I’m able to ––in my gut––
hold myself up.
My thick branches hang upwards:
they’re strong. They unabashedly cultivate knowledge. 
They persist and resist.
I’m beautiful.
That’s what they tell me at least

How is it that we’ve achieved consciousness
in so few realms?
We fail to welcome Mother Nature’s intentions.

I dream of a world in which ALL coexist:
creature with creature,
plant with plant,

Z est of oblivion,
A qua like Lethe:
C ounting traditions
U nlike the habits of mind:
A  flight of generation to generation and 
N ight to day.
P racticed through our way to mark the earth.

We ski the outstretched gradual trail to Viviana’s Field to the spot we think would be acceptable. A marvelous sight with the windmills decorating the tops of the mountains greets us.

All winter she has been waiting.
Waiting for the light to come; for the colors to fill her eyes.
She has dreamed of this moment,
heard stories, built subconscious expectations,