Upon Awakening from a Dream of Poland

Walk with this woman at your own risk.
The touch alone of her hand on your arm
will drive you deep into yourself.
Lose whole afternoons in baroque cathedrals.
Wander confused down cobblestone alleys,
through forests of birch and pine,
across fields golden with shocked grain.
Grow inexplicably fond of beet-root soup.
Beware the power of strong music;
fear evenings in the darkened opera,
night walks in Market Place Square.
She has style, she has grace.
She wears blue eye shadow.
Bring her silver. Bring her amber,
bugs suspended in frozen honey.
Dance with this woman just one night,
and walk your remaining years with a limp.