Dream

We were held captive, were being sorted.

Most of us were given a choice: some indistinct camp 
or Great Lavra: an ancient monastery, a remote steppe.

I knew that was the place, though winter was beginning. 
We might be able to scavenge for food (they said), for kindling.

As we arrived, a late and weak sun shone blue on the snow.
At my feet in a basket: five baby chicks already stiff with frost.

It felt like the end of the world, the end of everything.

I feared, then, the coming hardship; knew some of us 
would not see spring. Yet the displaced monks

made room for us, swept aside piles of books, papers; 
thinned their soup, put out more bowls in loving silence.

This was a holy place: I understood we would suffer 
whatever came with the monks. The snow on the ground

was blue; the light was fading. We were too many, too ill-clad. 
I was afraid—yet not afraid. The monks made room for us.

When I woke up, I wanted to return.

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This article appears in November 2025.