The Hermit at Midsummer

He’s watched his body age. Its taut topography —
Never a greedy eater, always active —
Loosens as its man-shaped coastline, worn
By battering years, surrenders to the gravity
That pulls the tides. If life means to dissolve —
Is this the rule? And is the rule commutative:
If birth is death, to die is to be born? —
Then he is living into dissolution
And back again, in this sackcloth of skin.
He shrinks inside its folds: reverse gestation.
Meanwhile, he pinches flesh and sees it hold
Its pinched shape. No elastic left. So old
And yet so young, he laughs. So young, so old.
On the year’s longest day, the sun shines cold.