the horses

we would run to the door
or windows
and look out when we heard
the clatter
of hooves on the street.
the heavy
clang of horse shoes
and wheels,
while the sagging horses
pulled the dark wagon along.
the gypsies draped
in black, with babies
under their arms would stand
and moan.
they'd stop and hold their
babies in the air
as if cursed with what they held.
sometimes my mother would
go out
and hand them what she could.
sometimes money, sometimes
eggs, or bread, a dish of stew.
they'd move on,
snapping the reins
to awaken the horses,
then into the woods
they'd go.