The Hermit’s Journal

Moving through time…

It’s a grey and foggy day, down here by the Willimantic. No traffic on the bridge, no one walking back into the thickets by the river. I’m fortunate that the water’s cold, even this winter when we’ve had no snow and the raging theories of climate change continue to rattle people’s consciousness. Maybe someone will listen. Maybe someone will act.

My shelter is invisible to others. They think I have a hut somewhere, that I’m sitting down in the tall grasses just to watch the ducks or to catch sight of a passing fish. Nothing more to add. I’ve put all the poems in the fire. They burn well, warm the night, stir the clouds, send out signals to the young. Keep your thoughts. Record the passing and pass on the ephemeral. Anyway, I’ve found a new nest down here, lined with thoughts and dreams. Sometimes the rain fills it, spilling silver and gold onto the dirt. Someone might come along before dusk. Walking slowly along the path. It’s narrow, there’s no room to falter. The water is near. Cold tonight, rippling through our veins.

January 1, 2022

The din of conversations streaming by, tires on wet pavement, whistles above the trees, a softening of color, the sky is grey, the sky is gentle blue. It’s time to head up to the café, share a table with someone, ask for hot black tea and a folded roll shining on the plate. It’s a ways to the café, but the wind is calm this morning and I’ll take the canoe as far as I can, then the old blue bike up the road, down the road. I’m dreaming conversations now, words simmering in my veins, hiding in my pockets, curling up in the warm folds of my scarf, knit with milkweed floss and sunlight. The river is sweet today, singing along, the fish somewhere out of sight, the ducks still among the grasses. There’s no ice here, no snow. It’s been raining all month, perfume of melting glaciers, perfume of worry and concern, perfume of images left beside the bed, left beside the fire, the door…the windows are now open so wide they escape, images out in the air, fleeing, flying, they aren’t here anymore, they’ve gone across the Atlantic to see if any fragments remain over there, under there, up where the ice has caught fire and the birds are growing inordinately wild wings to take them out of here, out of this noxious atmosphere, into dreamland and pure-land, into a space made for peace and harmony, where the light is clear and the evening brings us all together.

January 14, 2022

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