Eremite

The cave itself is pleasantly austere,

                     with little clutter—nothing save   

a narrow slab, a threadbare woolen wrap,   

                      and in the chipped-out recess here   

three sooty icons lit by oil lamp.   

                      Just beyond the dim cave's aperture,

a blackened kettle rests among the coals,

                      whereby, each afternoon, a grip   

of wild greens is boiled to a tender mess.

                      The eremite lies prostrate near

two books—a gospel and the Syrian's

                      collected prose—whose pages turn

assisted by a breeze. Besides the thread

                      of wood smoke rising from the coals,

no other motion takes the eye. The old   

                      man's face is pressed into the earth,

his body stretched as if to reach ahead.

                      The pot boils dry. He feeds on what

we do not see, and may be satisfied.