NOTHING LOSES LEAVES IT'S ALL FOREVER LOSING LEAVES

A splitting tree stands wind-shook by



the slender trees swaying lost branches



scarred low on their sides, stands



 



lately deciduous, weighted thin



with first fall. Along Sha Wan Drive



towards the pool the yellow oleander



 



flowered like wet tissue ceaselessly



like paper rain, the grained cement



the yellow, yellow oxidizing white



 



the dogs you’d muzzle not to let them



have a taste. My mother takes us



to the pool, it’s maybe June, canary



 



petals landing on our heads, my sister



small enough she wears my t-shirt



for a dress, the cinder is so slick



 



with petaled rot—it used to seem at least



a life so deadly might not ever die—



my mother catches a heel, falls



 



she sends us both ahead to wait for her



thirteen years ago up past the trees.



If we could be there still perhaps



 



I’d run to her, kneel in the dappled light



piece the foot together from concrete



although we are each different women now.



 



Up here the whitened apples nod on trees;



shrubs waste to burgundy anemone in snow.



All that grows leaves is breaking



 



all splits at root. Some mends. I’ll watch



those slim arms birth entire skies of buds.



Behind me at the gate in the warm rot



 



my mother, foot stuck in a gutter, stands



and all her pain is yellow blooms.