Mutterings Of An Old Hermit

One must write daily and
with considerable output.

I accept this.
But my difficulty is with the words “daily” and “considerable”.

Will I ever be called a writer?

Doubtful.
I am undisciplined.

Sky darkened.
Thunder and lightning at my window
Driving rain at the doorstep.
Soon there will be floods in low lands

There will be more tomorrow.
It is springtime.

The little dog died yesterday.

Her passing reminds us
death is as natural
as her chasing squirrels.

I am old enough to know
I will not see the worst,

so global warming is not
what I chose to fear the most.

However, my lawn greening in February
does give me pause.

White paper remains clean, and
pencil, sharp.

Coffee cools and
turns bitter to the taste.

The old man shrugs,
walks to the sink,
and empties the cup of dregs.

He dims the light and
climbs into bed.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

The muse sometimes vanishes
With its return indefinite.

Meditation on the purity
Of the blank page is not
Without its rewards.

The hermit does not seek the cave.
The cave seeks the hermit
And brings with it… Nothing.

Am I ready to accept
The empty cave?

Perhaps… In time.

It is a while since my last post.
My attention wondered elsewhere.
Nowhere important, just elsewhere.

Will I be more attentive?
Who knows?
The Old Hormit is unfettered.

Don’t tell me
what you believe.

There are those who
believe the earth is flat.

Is your belief
more believable?

The storms roared through
and tornado warning stilled.

The morning is clear and quiet
with only the scattered branches
giving evidence of the night’s chaos.

They will return,
those lines of violent storms.

It is their season on the plains.