Mutterings Of An Old Hermit

How many?
Too many for me to count.

How many more?
Too few for me to imagine.

I sit at the mouth of my cave
facing inward.

The moat is empty as
the water beasts proved defenseless.

The gates are open since
the land beasts destroyed themselves.

Overhead, the sky beasts,
with talons sheathed, watch over me.

I sit at the mouth of my cave
facing inward.

explore your soul
dance with the moon

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.