American zone, 1947–49

Particularly drawn to a patch of trees,
steady company, barbed wire closing in,
Grandpa Tzvi and I, a toddler, wandered
Germany’s Wetzlar DP camp, his hand
holding mine in reassurance as we explored
the paths of my lost childhood.

I hugged those trees and left a soft kiss,
gratitude for their consenting murmuring
and sweet aroma.  In that German garden
of Eden with Grandpa, I became one
of those trees while biting a ubiquitous apple.
A photo proves it.

And Grandpa, a martyred Polish rabbi’s son,
approved and reminded me in Yiddish, of course,
that Grandma Rachel anxiously awaited our
daily return to her safe embrace.