The Hatchet

 I want to live
with Grandfather’s
hatchet in my hand
            and his hat on my head
            riding on a sled
            pulled by two old horses.
They know the way
to the back field.

they don’t mind
            the load they bear.
They carried it for him
all those years ago.

 I could walk beside
the sled like he did
            wade through briars
                      and Clover
see fish jumping
in the scum covered pond.

 Then I could find the place
where the cows got out
            that day.

That’s where I’d find him
            laying in the grass
            looking at the sky
and grinning.

He’d stand up
            take his hat
            scruff my head
and say,
“Come on, Buffalo,
wait ‘til you see this.”

Tony Sexton