Zaida In The Wheat Field

Zaida in the Wheatfield
Zaida in the Wheatfield (detail)
Zaida in the Wheatfield (detail)
Zaida in the Wheatfield
Zaida in the Wheatfield (detail)
Zaida in the Wheatfield (detail)

Zaida In The Wheat Field

400.00

Inspired by a poem by Lois Barr, after I told her a story about my grandfather:

Woodcut of a Field of Wheat

It’s an old family story.

Who knows if it is true,

but sometimes when I nap,

I dream of skies of blue

of the smell of pine,

the taste of grass

and stalks of red, red wheat.

In the town there was a cheder,

there was a butcher, a tailor.

Our family ran the lumber yard

and sometimes when I nap

I smell the sap of wood.

There was a round-faced boy

whose voice sweetly chanted

his aliyah. A boy with fuzz

on his arms, legs and cheeks.

One sabbath morning soldiers

on horseback surrounded the shul

locked the doors and lit a fire.

Glass shattered. Men ran to the fields.

Cossacks followed in swift pursuit.

Wherever they saw the tall grains

move, they rammed their swords.

Over and over

sharp blades reaped

the lives of villagers,

but one fell asleep.

The round-faced boy

dreamt of blue skies and pine.

He dreamt of fields of wheat

and when he awoke

only birds cawed overhead.

The Cossacks were gone

and the fields ran red.

It’s an old family story

Who knows if it is true,

but sometimes when I nap,

I dream of skies of blue

of the smell of pine,

the taste of grass

and stalks of red, red wheat.

Lois Baer Barr, 9/19/17

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