The pinecone shows its sturdy scales
in perfect formation. The generations
of my people who strolled to the forest
to plan their futures, to tap the pines
for their sap to make tar paper roofs
for their humble pine-planked shacks.
The pines give life. They outlast
the people, my people, my grandfather,
who once lived on Yossel’s Street
off the market square. That mustard-yellow,
vertical-slatted house with the loft.
The scent of pine everywhere.
Under the scales lie the seeds,
each generation’s regeneration.
The people, my people, were rounded up,
forced onto a truck, taken out of town
and were shot, buried in a mass grave.
I stand in the pine forest, my feet
resting on the soft bed of needles.
I wish I could say to my long-gone grandfather,
this comes from your forest, Leshner Forest.
I gather enough pinecones to bring to his descendants.
