I know a man, we call each other
Friend, who also calls himself Hermit.
In truth, he does live almost alone,
save for his dogs and
the glowing, dusty, snowy,
piercing beauty of his mountains.
He is content there in the wide open,
greeting the sun each day, Inviting
it in and sharing it through his third eye.
I know a man who some call Hermit,
who resides in the suburbs, so close
to the whirrings of highway and flyway
that they’d awaken him, if he would listen.
But he doesn’t even hear.
This one hides in the cut of stone
behind his eyes and burrows within
the shadowy side of his heart.
He throws rocks when you try
to get close, and struggles to bring
himself out of the dark to perceive
the dawn in life shining on all his good——
people, accomplishments, memories, joy——
that surround him like those mountains
embrace the friend he never met,
the one who calls himself Hermit,
who loves the world and it loves him back.
Perhaps, one day, the second one might
emerge to embrace your bright love, but
first he must learn to love himself.