Christmas, 2003 / No. 11

Trees so pink

they seem to hold no leaves,

no green at all.

It is as if this May

I became

suddenly sympathetic to exuberance.

I call them plum because of their blush,


consider my assessment of their beauty

above reproach.

Every time I see one I feel lyrical.

I watch for what will happen next,

knowing there’s a plot.

When blossoms die, as they are bound to,

trees go green.

My friend who knows her flowering trees

told me they’re actually crabapple.

The fruit, therefore,

will not be sweet.

Elana Wolff is a writer, editor, translator, and designer and facilitator of social art courses. Her fifth solo collection of poems, Everything Reminds You of Something Else, was published this spring. She has contributed to the magazine since 2000. Last updated winter, 2017–2018.