Ellis Elliott
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You have to cross the Little Doe to get there
nestled between Wildcat Valley and Wallings Ridge
to the broad cedar walls where the children scatter
like marbles when Spring shakes her shaggy head
awake black bears with brown snouts rouse rooting
young saplings Sis skips ahead of the little ones
gathers them like acorns in her apron holds tight
the baby Daniel says he is going again
as Martha secures the stitches binding her
to him French knots of sorrow and scripture
He unrolls her shawl round her shoulders follows
the needle’s rhythm with his breath his leaving as sure
as her fingers she calls for Sis to send them
away to wash drops her chin to her chest it best
they not see what had thawed set to ice again
threads unraveling in her breast
