Abandon
for Amy, 1958-2005
by Marjorie Stamm Rosenfeld 

The horses released at last
to flat freedom, we rode
on the meadow of yellow flowers

that went for miles—only the swirl
of a covey of quail kicked up
by whirling hooves, then

nothing impeding the rush
to forever
in furious riding.

I put you there in a picture
when you were 8 or 9.  I drew you
propped on your elbows,

chin in one hand,
in a field of yellow flowers,
painted a yellow sun in a yellow sky,

though you had never seen that place
and were riding somewhere else;
your legs too short

for your feet to reach the stirrups,
you bounced, sitting the saddle
in perfect balance.

What may the glaciers carve out next?
What they have carved out now
is sorrow. 

I would endure
the horses, picking their slow way
through woods again,

the only occasional glimpse
of a white birch,
the perilous downward trail going,

fixed in the watchful eyes
of bighorn sheep
perched on impossible crags

to emerge
at the meadow that goes for miles,
the horses suddenly breaking

into furious gallop,
nostrils flaring to meet the wind
on its own terms,

yellow streaming under the hooves
of the horses running forever
over the purloined land.

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