Ordinary Time

On a sweeter day of sun and windy sky,
The hermit stands in his doorway drinking tea.
Though spring declares itself, it’s only January.
These gentle southern mountains seem to sigh
With longing. Above the trees, a hawk’s thin cry
Unspools, a silver thread of hunger. He
Listens. Hears his heart’s reply, its plea
For some release — but he is free. So, why?
His old desires in hand, always he yearns.
Heaven’s a break in clouds that here, today,
Have cleared, a warm breath when the wind is warm.
Is there anything he needs? Along his arm,
Hairs rise, prickling, prescient. This is the way
It strikes him. Satisfied, his soul still burns.