Midway in their desperate journey they
Find themselves in a dark wood. Women
In skirts and domed hats carry heavy
Jugs and stuffed baskets, all they now own.
Men drive beasts, pigs on leashes, horses tethered
To a wagon tipping, too full of nothing
Terribly valuable. At least today the weather
Clears at last. One woman quietly sings.
About suffering we are always wrong
These days. In Brueghel's painting we peer
From the woods; the travelers' backs, strong
But bent, are what we see as they steer
Themselves toward a distant city. I am in that city
And see them coming. Their faces don’t scare me.
from Into the New World by Robert Schultz (SLANT Books)