Mutterings Of An Old Hermit

Mine is not an escape
or even a choice.

Solitude chose me.

We tweak and bend,
slipping down one dark alley and up another
striving to reach the light hidden just beyond us.

The light we will never see.

The hermit sleeps in a cave with his only possession, a small box. When he opens it each morning, he is always happy to find it empty.

One day, a passing pilgrim shows interest in the box and the hermit, pleased to be relieved of this last burden, gives it to him.

My box is not empty. It holds the envy I feel for the hermit.

January’s cold blankets the manse and its denizens. We fear the possibility of freezing rain capable of bringing down power lines and the ensueing discomfort.

With noses pressed on the windowpane, we watch the gathering gloom. I for signs of precipitation and the dog for the other enemy, the squirrel.

The snow is gone.
Its beauty melted into the barren ground.

The snow shovel remains in the corner, rusting.

Useless

The Old Man wakes to find
Death on two feet wearing fluffy slippers
with bunny faces and glass eyes.

“I know why you are here
but why the fuzzy footwear?”

“There are reasons.
Some funny, some not.
But the truth be told
my feet are cold!”

 

The winter gloom has settled in
And it will remain for weeks.

The light on my writing table
Is as dim as my eyesight
and spring is well off.

I will endure.

Circumstances have nudged me on to a path slightly oblique from my norm and reduced my poetic form to mere muttering which may not be apparent to anyone chancing upon these efforts even though I know my muse is distracted and is unable to provide a clear voice for my pen and I will require patience as I wait the return of the inspiration necessary to proceed in this new direction, whatever it may be.

Muse lays back and mutters to itself.
I am not privy to this conversation
until sometime later, perhaps.

If I am attentive, Muse may whisper to me.

Once.

I can capture the words if my pen is ready,
otherwise I lose them forever.

An illusory downpour is hidden in the glare
of a bright autumn sun shining in a cloudless sky.

It is make-believe. All of it.

Even so, we blissfully bask in what we imagine,
whether rain or sun, on a day we want to call today.

But wait.

It can be erased.
Not erased but unimagined and
it will disappear as quickly as it appeared.

Then, stricken by the pain of our loss, we will mourn.