Mutterings Of An Old Hermit

Will you happen upon me again?
Will we run together as we did?

We prostrate before an image of our god
that is nothing more than a mirror
reflecting our own ill-conceived opinions and prejudices.

God is more than that.

I intend to spend my final days
as I wish and without conflict.

So I retreat
with my back to the ways of the world
to avoid the collective clamor and its destructive dissonance

and embrace solitude.

A dislocation generates
An inventory of options
That shrinks and disappears
With time and inattention

And a Hermit emerges.

The sycamore tree drops leaves and small branches throughout the year and, in late spring, it scatters its outer bark about the yard.

I should not be critical of the tree’s bad habits.
It is silent about mine.

Once and once again
we accept the light.

Then one day,
the light dims
and we are afraid.

Then one day,
the light is consumed
and we embrace the darkness.

What appears as Truth
is merely Perception
which itself is a Lie.

If a tree falls in a forest
and there is no one present to hear it,
can the tree make a sound?

… and there is no one present to see it,
can the hermit make a mistake?

I have reached a stage in my life where
I am no longer required to suffer fools.

Now that puts a smile on my face!

Issue: In stories, hermits are usually found in the woods or deserts.

Since I do my best to ignore the outside landscaping,
my back yard is reverting to its natural forested state,
but global warming may introduce a desert instead.

Either way.