A Poem for Yom HaShoah

For Helen

The child of survivors spoke of the softness
Breaking forth from the bark,
Pushing its way from the cold comatose tree,
How it sprung,
green, then white,
climaxing in stunning pinks and purples.

As we carpooled to work she pointed
to the trees that lined the road,
“this is my floral escape tunnel,”
she said, as she put her foot on the gas.