RESURECTION

With his pitch and posts and cooking bowls
He approached from winter’s distance,
And with those worldly goods slung horizontally
Across his back he appeared as a shuffling crucifix,
Convinced of his salvation from the snow.

At the middle interval he paused, unsure of whether
He’d seen us or if snow blindness had afflicted him,
Until the wind, assaulting his last elements with one
Final arid strike that nearly felled, compelled him to
Continue before certainty was proven true.

And only yards away he heaved a better breath
Before unloading his belongings to embrace us,
But as he did so he tipped forward from his poles and,
Raising a mist finest icing, fell face down. We rushed to
Comfort but his spoilt eyes said more than we could soothe.

We were as lost to him again as we had always been,
Though stood tall and blizzard blown we thought us noticed,
But thinking of the wretched weather
Should have taught us more; such stretch of un-trod
Paper with this footnote as the only message left.