Marc F. Wiegand

Walking

for Meredyth

This child’s pack, still pink and white, was yours.
Your slender shoulders never fit the loops.
The way you used to hitch and heft is gone.
Yet this is the one that I select
to bear your memory on my path,
the knap I lift and the road I own
to measure the property of my track.
The straps which cut my shoulders load
and bear your loan upon my back,
to carry you as I once could—
as once I always thought I would.
I set my strength against the right of hills,
my stride against their burden and their breadth,
and each step bears my weight, your name my text.