by Ethel Mortenson Davis
For my final journey
I would like to take
a sleigh ride
through snow-laden roads
where branches are bent low,
a ride
behind a matched pair
of Belgian horses
whose gait becomes regal
when they begin to trot,
and bells on black harnesses
make music with the dance.
You came that day
with horses and a stoneboat
to pick us up at school.
All that day it snowed,
and at noon we ate our soup in jars
warmed on the wood stove.
You took our cousins home,
your brother’s–the one
you never saw eye to eye with–
and dropped them
within a quarter of a mile
of their house.
The stoneboat became
a glider on top of the snow,
and at home you left it behind
the shed until spring
and rock-picking time
when the earth heaves up rocks,
and we heaved up stones
too heavy for girls
on to the stoneboat.
For my final journey
I would like to take
a sleigh ride
behind two Belgians.
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