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.
​