The Hermit

The Hermit

There was a troglodyte. A hermit.
Deliberately ignorant of all things going
On outside his dripping cave and brown
Beard. Craggy, shaggy, each.

Not knowing Tuesday from Friday
He ventured out to gather seaweed
Or clams. Whatever lay stranded, left
Behind. On the mild, wild beach.

Near a boulder, between driftwood
Ducking and alert, he stooped. Never,
Not ever, squinting, had he ever seen
This, before. Dove, love, needing.

It cannot be. Forgotten, every longing
Now awakened, stood to claim him.
In a white dress, the sand held golden
Tresses. Flying, sighing, reading.

She flipped a page. He leaned, as though
Her hand could move his soul. And
Tears like drops of cave-dew sent a ripple
Through his heart. Drop, plop, but...

Turning, the hermit stumbled headlong
Up the crags to what he knew. Two sticks
Will give me heat while I sleep hungry, and
The stone will keep me. Sleep me. Shut.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007