It was said that an angel flew over Chelm
with a bag full of the souls of wise men
The bag tore and all the wise souls fell out.
And so (with Yiddish irony) it came to pass,
that from such prodigality of sagacity
the inhabitants of Chelm are famously foolish.

Ana was born in Chelm.
Her name was Chana then. The people
didn't know, nor were they, really different from
any other people, neither more foolish, nor wiser.
She was happy in the house on Lubelska.

But then, drifting across Europe, the slow tide
washed over Chelm: the Depression, Polonization.
Her father lost his horse, the wagon.
Unable to endure the shame of coming home
the dread of facing the faces of his wife, six children
without a coin to buy a crust of bread, one day he didn't return.

Chana learned hunger
the humiliation of poverty,
Mankind's astounding bestiality.

She says, I want to leave something behind,
My story. For my children, my grandchildren
Generations to come. L'dor, v'dor.

We work on the book in her sunlit kitchen.
She bakes strudel. Eat, eat, she urges.
Wide windows look down on the yard. Animals and birds
engorge themselves at feeders-- a groundhog, squirrels,
the ubiquitous big crows of Maryland.
I expect a lion to wander in from the woods
lie down with a lamb.

In the yard a small orchard-- apple, cherry, and pear trees.
Birds eat the cherries. She puts out a salt block for the deer,
fills the gazebo with carrots for the winter.
I say, Your neighbors must hate the deer.
They eat the flowers and shrubs. Don't you mind?

It's all right, she says.

..........................................................Israel Lewis