Babushka, by Adrien

 

Adrien Helm, 2022

Babushka

                                                                             

Like a tree he stands

Camouflage coat brown

Against the snow.

 

Icy wind spirals

Crusty dust of drifts,

Needles against bare skin.

 

I tug the knot of my scarf,

Take gloved hands from

Pockets, pick my way forward.

 

“Son.” My word softens

His shoulders, eases tension

From his neck, swings his gun aside.

 

“Step back, grandma.”

“Your mother wants you home;

Leave my land and go.”

 

He scoffs behind his mask,

Looks away. “Listen to me, child;

You need to go.”

 

Anger born of fear blooms,

Eyes bore into mine. “Go, grandma.”

We stand, steely pillars of conflict.

 

“Da. But look, carry this in your pocket.”

I extend the handful of seeds.

“Your body will leave beauty where you fall.”

 

My back absorbs his gasp.

I think of blue skies, better days,

Fields of sunflowers.

 

                               Adrien W Helm ©2022