The Canadian sun hangs low over the dying
Blood Roots, the last left before an unexpected
The stones nearby seem shined by God.
Daughters will go to the wood cabin of their
childhood where the family went to get even
further away from the outside world.
One daughter will remember their now gone
mother's long, seal brown hair, the paintings
of the glaciers and reckless mountain waters
her mind crafted and then painted again and
again. Each replication further assuring their
importance and worth.
The other will remember sturdy wild, tall
trees -- her running between them afraid
back to the cabin, her palms filled with
Blood Roots for her mother, her palms filled
with Blood Roots to press deeply against her
mother's warm chest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem