and post notes and photos about your poem like Stephe Watson.
One Hermit Ages
This Life is a social one.
A teacher, thus students...
No caves. No cottages.
Awake to Dreams. Dreams of Awake.
Poetry elusive; time for it all the more so.
The body, a member of a civic body.
The heart a hermit...as deep within as a lamplit cave might beckon.
The night air,
waters (somewhere) burble.
A deer in the dark
yesterday’s now 12 degree snow.
A mouse moves. In sudden urgency.
The moon is lost in wane,
in fog, in the coldest hour.
I balance a bundle of barky splits
in the fold of my arm. Indentations.
The stove awaits. The kettle, too.
Poetry soon. Beneath the maple
silhouetted only by my memory of
the corner of Sky shared in
differing times by first the sun
and then the moon or first the moon
and then the sun.
Taiwanese whole-leaf, tightly bound.
Soon to unfurl in the new heat.
Some rinds to plop in, too.
The necessaries will wait,
The tea, the fire, the words
They are the Actual Necessary.
I come to them in dark.
To drink of their light.
They call to me in dark.
To offer me their light.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018