Now you have traveled far from home,
close to, into a war zone.
The guide who is leading you
over the mountains may know his way,
or not; traveling companions
suddenly disappear.
And always, stretching out below—
battlefields smoke.
Is her breathing labored?
Ask the nurse to open the window.
In the growing winter dark,
a circle of snow-covered firs
offers the rustle of taffeta
party dresses—she could still grow up.
Now, the trees are leaning in the window;
and one begins to sing;
an aria rises in the cold room.
It could fill your child’s lungs,
wring a drop of perfect love
from you; stop anybody’s heart.