Late

At least it isn't dysentery

We took the shorter way. 

Packed the good china, rocking chair, an heirloom parlor clock,
Plus a few bolts of calico for curtains in the new house.
The wagons rode low on their axles, and someone said we'd hunt along the way.
I smiled at the children counting flowers from the back.
And was sure then that we'd never be late.

The orchards, they kept saying, the orchards.
He'd drawn it on a napkin, more or less.
The children sang, and oxen pulled, 
We chose to trust the season and the napkin and each other. 
And why wouldn't we? The pass would hold. 
We surely weren't late.

October took the wheels and November the road.
Some families moved ahead, while others slowed.
You learn some things about a person when the flour runs low.
Who watches whose children. Who doesn't.
Who was always this way, underneath.
Just waiting to be late.

As December turned to something pale and mean,
Mother carefully smoothed out the cloth each night.
Laid out the spoons and steepled her hands and said grace the same as ever,
While the children sat up straight and scarcely chanced a glance outside,
And slowly the shapes of things grew soft,
Until the light itself came late.

Seven walked out and five came down the other side, still walking.
They'd promised one another they'd keep moving, and did.
One foot in front of the other, past the point where feet made sense.
Amidst a boundless white in all directions.
Because love is never late.

In spring they found us fewer by the lake.
We crept out languid; met them in the sun.
The sludge we stood on weeping out black tears.
We were so glad! 
And spoke about the weather and the cold and napkins and God.

They asked us how we managed.
We smiled and said we managed.
Looked out for each other; been generous.

So now with summer orchards in my nostrils,
I recline in my old rocking chair smiling,
Recollecting how I knew from the start,

That I would not be late.