Polish Forest

I hear a forest
out of the wood paneled wall
and see a hut
likely a wolf crossed the path.
My grandmother lay in the snow
that up the window piled
urging my mother
to escape
into those woods
letting the people stick
like mushrooms
to their roots.

On the day
when my mother
of her frightend palness
the trees bark
will shed
Should I be born
the pines grace
of the silent polish wood
will put
a birthmark in my soul,
I hear a forest
out of the wood paneled wall
around my bed.