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

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