BY DR. AGONSON
Gazing into heaven, watching the falling snow,
spots of grey on white, like television static,
shifting endlessly, race their way to earth below.
Landing on her cheeks, and quickly they melt away,
flakes join the salty streams cascading down her face.
Winter’s promised freedom takes too much for its pay.
This season’s spreading bed of white thickly covers
the forest in an untrodden blanket of snow,
while her arms cradle this last gift between lovers.
Her sobbing cries now replace her dead infant’s screams.
To the sky she pleads, entreating God intervene.
Not death, she prays, let it be the boy merely dreams.
There’s no time for lamenting, the footsteps forewarn.
This life’s frozen ending, like a plug being pulled,
makes the whirlpool’s center round which swirls this dread morn.
The soldiers’ running feet, kicking, upturn the snow.
She cares not if they take her. Nothing matters now.
Her hopes are here made empty in this single woe.
She doesn’t see the silhouettes fade into view.
She turns not away from the God who takes and gives,
asking that moments with the babe be not so few.
Around her, she hears them, but pays the men no heed.
They see her wordless lips—trembling, the soldiers think—
and notice not the cause that makes this woman plead.
“You’re safe,” say they, “We’ve come to you as a rescue.”
She spares them no glance to see if they’re friend or fiend.
“You made it across the border, one of the few.”
She gazes into heaven, wistfully staring,
the snow burying her with her only child.
A man picks her up, to warmth and comfort bearing.
Listen to my beautiful voice: