The Hermit Father


The hermit is quiet.  Within the world’s lot,
 I ache, unlike him, with fear, and dressed in
Clothes of fast-fading hue.  But may rhyme not
 For a while see your hidden, forest house,
Where you are eternal, prayer’s crafted spouse?
 I cannot trespass, poor hermit, your plot
When my sins rankle and, like demons, grouse.

Come to me, child.  His voice calls.  Come with sin.
 Carry wood here—your fire I need begin.
Self-consciousness keeps my legs from a trot.
 Split logs he lifts from my arms, aching, weak.
I want to say—but the father must speak.
 Ahh, you chose good wood.  My child, you did fine.
Love has special meanings deep in each line.