This train ride from Warsaw
to Wloclawek is perfect.
Mother's old albums were right;
all shades of sepia,
with black and white
and gray, passing
and the perfect time of year—
early in December—
fields, orchards and gardens
on their way to freezing solid.
A few snowflakes come on cue,
and so too the old woman—
slowly, slowly up her slope,
...
In the poem From Warsaw to Wloclawek
Myron Ernst
