The whole world slopes southwards, and as if ensledded we slide,
navigating curves, navigating blacktop tobaggans. Down
we go, and the trees perch above and then below, and the distance
turns hillsome blue. And still, we pass through, whizzing, waiting,
greeting familiar stopping places along the route: C-stores,
fast food, ice cream, french fries. Pumped full, we jump and go.
The black road turns off, over a high river creek where
we rode horses with saddlebags full of food, down
a straight stretch where we biked long and hard, in full sun
shafts, in Grandma-house pursuit. Up a big hill, we coast and slow
by an empty patch of field where once we played Bingo, by a
board-square cake walk spot, a ring toss, a duck stand, and the
stage where bluegrass music, once with my father, played.
Past, past, past, to the rock, small church called Fieldstone,
where great-grandparents, their children, dotted the pew,
down the large hill with the incredible view, down the dirt road
to the first lane on the right, through the cow, metal gate, by
the big tree, by the wet creek, by the daffodils, ancestral greet.
The ground levels, the sleigh slows, and one last incline
One day, this home will be a frame. One day, the light
will close. One day, they will all be gone.
the slippery slope.