The Hiker
I snap the picture:
his checkerboard shirt, the cap
worn like a map of all roads
he’s walked. Black socks,
boots that know the pull of the earth.
Two poles, made by hand,
for a body still able to move,
but not forever.
The wind sings a different tune now,
and the moon hides itself
in the amber of his eyes.
I think this could be the last time,
but in the quiet, it doesn’t matter.
The hiker’s path, unborn before
his heart learned to beat,
walks forward anyway.
Read More Poems From the New York Almanack HERE.
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