The Good Death
My father says
in time he'll learn
to listen to the Polonaise
and not hear Sikorski
or Warsaw, the hollow surge
and dust of German tanks,
only Chopin,
his staff of clean notes
and precise legato.
His dreams will be
of crystalled trees,
papered gifts
in red half light,
the smell of warm sheds
and girls drawing milk
from waiting cows.
The snow will fall
and go unnoticed.
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From the Language of Mules by John Guzlowski. You can read more about John Guzlowski's father and mother and their experiences in WWII at Lightning and Ashes.
The poem also appears in the anthology celebrating Chopin's 200 birthday, Chopin with Cherries from Moonrise Press.
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