The whole thing overflowing; mushrooms, stems, Small flowers with old names I never learned, Sweet berries and odd roots, leaves trailing thin; Washed, pickled, stewed and diced-up, unconcerned. To this there was a darkness — when's there not — Of post-war hunger, rationing and rot. Strange stories she would start and then trail off, Where horror seemed mundane and goodness fraught. We'd wait, but soon the cooking and the smells Would place our small apartment on alert. As each, no matter what their grief, must eat; Sustained out of the same communal dirt.