Classic Poem

The cactus pricks the window pane,
the withered rose begs for a drink.
You look down at the red borscht stain
upon her apron, and you think:

never again will she light stoves
with a wood match, or kindle coal,
never again will she hoard loaves
or spread pâté on a stale roll.

Seven weeks after Easter, face
now waxed and powdered for the worms,
she waits for God at her own pace
as you attempt to come to terms.

All here defies the resurrection:
the borsht-stained apron, the withered rose,
the cactus leaning with affection
towards the only light it knows.