The Shepherdess’ Prophecy
I bring my fingers to the temple,
ten digits long been sacrificed to house work
a simple brainless rub soothes a headache.
Its been a long day, on top of a long life,
not that I could tell my grandchildren that
as they wail, at my knee.
“Grandma, grandma, play with me”
Such blissful ignorance. As if I could keep up.
But I must continue, they need me, and what is left of my love.
Outside my window a barren tree loses its final leaves
the bright sunshine nevertheless bounces off it
as if it where wrapped in golden fleece.
Its long limbs like an old man’s boney fingers
pointing away from the horizon.
It points to my dearest Virgil who waits
With God’s right hand, Eros.
One memory, plucked unluckily from a mess,
rises to the surface. An Easter service, Warsaw 1940,
our church dark and everyone whispered prayers.
Father left months ago. My mother never told me why.
Children these days do not know the meaning of such a lie
its importance, its weight, or the meaning of Easter.
I wore pink – the colors of my nation – to match the Amaryllis
which had somehow been resurrected from under rocks.
