Triada Samaras Painting / Poem Full Moon Standish / Luminous

Triada Samaras Painting / Poem : Full Moon Standish / Luminous

Since spending more time in Western Maine recently, I have become very inspired by the Eastern White Pine tree. It also happens to be the official state tree of Maine.

Meet the Eastern White Pine - New England Forestry Foundation New England Forestry Foundation

One tree in particular has inspired several of my artworks and a poem.

One of those artworks, a painting on wood panel, "Full Moon Standish" found a new home this past week to my great delight. Its new owner is a wonderful human being who also happens to be a close friend of mine, lucky for me.

I feature this artwork below together with a poem about the same tree that I wrote this past winter called Luminous.  It strikes me that I could go on making artworks indefinitely about this tree. 

Full Moon Standish
Watercolor on Panel
16 x 20 inches
Triada Samaras 2023

Luminous

The sun rises behind
a towering pine—
my home, my strength, my goddess,
my courage to rise above the rest.

But I wonder—
will she fall?
And when?

The sun ignites her body,
highlights her spine, her limbs,
the wind pressing against her back,
her trunk dissolving
into empty blue space.

I sketched her once,
sitting on my summer deck,
her shadow stretching long
against the bones of my house.

Charcoal dust on my fingertips,
I traced her lines,
her lips,
pressed them onto an empty white page.

"She can fall like snowflakes,"
I heard,
"softly upon your page."

Her towering height resists capture,
yet I refuse to shrink her.
I need to see her as she is,
to learn her wisdom.

There is so much in me that is fragile,
so much I must outgrow.

And still, I wonder—
will she fall?
And when?

I think she will tell me.

But honestly,
I think she already did.

c. Triada Samaras 2025

Here she is in a cell phone photo

A slightly edited version 8/18/2025

Luminous

The sun rises behind

a towering pine—

my home, my strength, my goddess,

my courage to rise above.

But I wonder—

will she fall?

And when?

The sun ignites her body,

highlights her spine, her limbs,

the wind pressing against her back,

her trunk dissolving

into empty blue space.

I sketched her once,

sitting on my summer deck,

her shadow stretching long

against the bones of my house.

Charcoal dust on my fingertips.

I traced her lines—

her lips—

pressed them onto an empty white page.

"She can fall like snowflakes,"

I heard,

"softly upon your page."

Her towering height resists capture,

yet I refuse to shrink her.

I need to see her as she is,

to learn her wisdom.

There is so much in me that is fragile,

so much I must outgrow.

And still, I wonder—

will she fall?

And when?

I think she will tell me.

But honestly,

she already has.