Busy Day

The hermit sits listening
To the rain—not to music,
Since there are no musicians,

Not to his own voice chanting
Passages from books, of which
He owns four of the classics

And has read each so often
That right now he’s sick of them.
He won’t bother gardening,

Not in this weather. He has
A little bit of food left
That he hopes will see him through.

No one for him to talk to.
Nothing to do but listen.