Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Hermit

His solar system
of possessions, people, obligations

never tires, never leaves him
to his iron sepulcher.

"Shove my food in on a tray,"
he'll say.

But the hot breeze of summer
makes the pines weep.

A child holds a mirror up,
the wind bangs open a door,

and his mind inclines
to another space.

That small hut of his
expands

and begins to seem
a splendid cathedral.
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