Foray in the forest to forage
for mushrooms after the rain
I may pass the hermit’s shelter
partially hidden in the circle of trees
Nobody has seen him
he seems to be invisible
The birds know where he lives
in his imperceptible presence.

If I see him I want to ask him
how he listens to silence,
to voice of solitude
Are they silent thoughts?

The hermit laughs
like a mountain brook
lively and clear.
He is bald and has a white beard.
He smiles like your best friend.

The hour

“The hour is striking so close above me,
so clear and sharp,
that all my senses ring with it.
I feel it now: there’s a power in me
to grasp and give shape to my world.
I know that nothing has ever been real
without my beholding it.
All becoming has needed me.
My looking ripens things
and they come toward me, to meet and be met.”
-Rainer Maria Rilke

from Rilke’s Book of Hours translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy


What are possessions

Because she is deaf she uses her hand-voice
Words she can’t hear but she can see

Every word is a poem
Every word she loves

Love can create a wreckage
Indifference cuts affection

Imagine glacier breaking
A sound she can not hear

Her hands can voice the catastrophe
Your eyes can paint the scene

We don’t have to hurry or have everything
To live forever

Sometimes we don’t have to be heard
Or be seen.

Absence can assert a presence
Asking herself abstract questions.