Long Roost

For some reason, the mind,
Which tends to circle, like
Just about everything

Else in this universe,
From spiral galaxies
Or orbiting planets

To continental crusts,
Weather systems of clouds
To clouds of gnats, comes back

Again to the few facts
It has about the life
Of a reclusive monk

Turned hermit, centuries
Past. This particular
Hermit had a small house

Of stones and a garden,
Which must have been hard work
To survive on alone,

No family, servants,
Or friends—rarely even
Visitors. He was cold

In the winter and wet
When it rained, and hungry
At least half of the time.

This was no kind of life
For a former abbot.
This was no kind of life

For anyone to boast.
It was the kind of life
Other people pity.

But when some visitors
From the monastery
Brought him ink and paper,

He wrote hundreds of poems
Expressing bemusement
At how much time he had,

How even gardening
And working on the house
And several naps a day

Left him with so much time
His head seemed to open
And his mind settled in.