Moldova was her name

Moldova

was her name and she

was a castle of a woman,

towering over my green valley with a presence

filled with ancient trees and soaring wild birds-of-prey,

solid in her rocky steadfastness

with bright historical eyes,

inquisitive and penetrating,

and i felt deep gratitude in her presence,

inhaling a rich Slavic note reminiscent of Codru,

where large cellars hold brilliant wines.

Mother Russia is nearby, and she watches our exchange

with what i hope is no more than curiosity.

Ukraine is listening, too.