Walking the Familiar

for Sage

When the horses hear us coming,

they nicker and whinny

across the white field stubbled

with grass. I stroll with you

along the frozen road, the sky

low and gray as smoke.

 

As long as we move, you sleep.

The stroller wheels spin you

into their spell. Your lashes

are stars on your cheeks,

small constellation.

What dreams, what lives

remembered, in your slumber?

 

The river moves whitely in the air.

Mist settles over the hills,

their snow-flocked trees

patterns of light and dark.

 

It’s the month of your birth,

December, month of ending.

The archer shoots his arrows

of fire into the coming night.

Too soon you’ll walk on your own

path, no need for me to follow,

then, behind me, wheels

turning over the familiar road.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s