Lily of the Forest
On the slopes of Mt. Ślęża, the cult
of stone, virgin
holding the fish, bear
with the solar cross on its rump, all caged
in wire mesh
though the vandals still break through with their spraypaint.
All the stops and starts
of slippery rock and worn boot,
the falling leaves of history
warm stew in the tourist cup.
And on the way down
all these red berries in the forest
surrounded with silver leaves. Yes,
I would call this holy. Even the vandals
have a word they use for home.