Biala Vieza

Farmers on slow carts carry sweet hay.
This purple-flowering Polish earth.
No Osweicim here. The forest, the forest.
Lead us further into forest.

Moss carpet. No mass grave, but violets.
No people naked falling
back into the womb. See child,
your father lives, carrying wildflowers.

We touch our child’s face,
run through Polish forests flowering snow.
Taste the last blueberries. Are they coming?
Soon the snow will cover everything.

Your beard brushes me as branches
brush the wanderer. Lead us further
into forest. I fear sabers. I fear wolves.
We were born for forests deep with snow.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| © Margaret Szumowski

BACK