Hermitages

The Card
Carrying a lantern, he looks
sadly down from the height
where once a young man danced
with a white dog. Age
regards the folly of youth. Solar joy
has shrunk to lantern light.

The Thrush
all winter
quiet under the bushes
waiting for spring
and brief solitary song

The Crab
Heavy, heavy the house
only big enough for one. Big enough
to cover one rear.
But it never lasts-- every year
a new one must be found.
Bigger, better
heavier weight to drag.

A humble nest, a stolen shell, a rude
hut in remote locale: is solitude
defined by contents or container? Don't
these images of isolation shunt
the seeker down a dead-end track? It's true,
it's difficult to hear the silence through
the noise and jostle of the "madding crowd."
Or so we claim. God's voice is just as loud
in city alleys as in desert sands.
His face is written large by human hands.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside