Weak feet falter to the brink,
knees folding like cloth under rickety weight.

Rest now.
Leave all burdens here.

Its rush elutes the rust of years,
the crusts pasted to dry lips
that drag up age like a corpse from the ground.

The clinging weights thud like ripe fruit.

Leave them.
Take up weightlessness.

Its fluid folds and turns below;
winter after August, milk to burnt sand.

A traveler kneels to drink from cupped hands
and meets a stranger, staring up,
nameless and nothing to anyone.