The Winter Traveler

Once more the earth is old enough

for snow: a crooked posture of cold

grasses, a white sky sighing down

bare branches, a freeze tightening

each liquid into stone. Tomorrow

and tomorrow and tomorrow

I'll be anchored by a sinking

of my bones into the air

I carry in my clothes, walking

roadside with my wrists exposed

to the horizon. Dear Passerby:

Since I am nothing, I am whole.

I'll be lifted by the wind's edge

and borne home—the day

after the day after tomorrow.


--Malachi Black