Olsany, a Poem to You

You’re a not-so-secret cemetery, aren’t you?
Your sobbing is not silent.
I smell the bright yellow torrent of autumn tears that fall from your trees.

Soft, yellow-gold does nothing to melt the
crisp, clear air. It is cold and
the wind only makes you cry harder.

I want to know your seasons.
Will you be cold and white and bright?
Or snowy and cloudy and barren?
Are you sometimes hot and green and mysterious?
Or do you bustle with Life under green?

Thank you for the still death of your stone statues.
Angels and crosses, eagles and prayers…
Massive, not delicate. Cozily powerful.

You sprawl, as you encompass the poor, the forgotten, the famous.
Do the people around this neighborhood
know what lies within your protective arms, sometimes crying, sometimes smothering?
Do they feel your warm stone heart?

Original poem by Angela Schnaubelt, fall 1998