On your slender shoulders in half-light
I hang my open eyes.
An engineering marvel
that this spare frame of yours,
graced with blended strength
and spanned by tendons as articulate as lips,
bears the weight of my imagining.
I pile you higher still with remorse for things done
or not done when you were not even near,
but the mirrored muscles from neck to shoulders
neither flinch nor clench:
your blades hold their repose.
You move toward the wall to sleep.
I watch and you lead me through it.
The darker shadows become trees
and the white sheets the snowbank.
We are hiking upward.
I stay close behind,
because all our gear—everything we need—
you carry on your shoulders.
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