The Writer’s Tale
In an effort to frame concisely a brief outline of my love affair with words,
I came to this journal.
It lay open and empty many long hours as I contemplated superlatives
And conjured cogitations,
As writers often do,
Seeking the ideal phrase,
Painting dream and glory
In comma-specked soliloquy
And stunning summary.
As I tried to determine where the lines should be drawn
Between raw truth and exaggeration,
Fiction and mythology,
I had yet to write the last chapter.
The Hermit’s Tale
I went to see the hermit on the mountain.
“It must be time to work that garden. It’s past mid-April.”
“April?” he looked at me quizzically.
It was then I realized he had no calendar.
In searching the walls and nooks I saw he also had no clock.
“Do you want a clock?” I asked casually as he sat oiling a tarpaulin.
“I have a lot of them.” I continued, “And maybe a calendar?”
He looked at me again, in utter consternation.
As if, like at Babel, our languages were suddenly one different from the other.
“No thanks.” he finally answered. He tapped his breast bone.
“This is my clock.”
He looked out through the open doorway by which he labored and said “This is my calendar.”