The Hermit’s Houseguests
Art by Claire Gurley (2022 archive)
Inspired by the headline “Swiss Town: Have Cave, Want (Social and Outgoing) Hermit”
Philosophy assumes it’s an electrical bill
when something flits through her mail slot,
landing on her doormat, Circumstance.
She goes back to her book (a book you would never understand)
but it is a party invitation.
She is allowed out
after all.
The new town hermit makes the best lasagna
and knows everyone’s names.
This is the subject of much concern.
How can he foretell the storms
in company?
The cave has been warmer since he moved in.
He finds you a flower.
The surrender of its roots to his hand shatters the universe.
A floral upset now rests in your hair.
Most of his stories end up being about snails,
although it is best not to criticize.
When he moved in, he shook
dust off the notebook,
dust off the ancient texts,
dust off the spade and the rake.
Wisteria blocks half his door.
Visitors linger in the garden,
forced to watch the grass together as it reaches upwards,
to wilt with it as it falls and fades to earth.
They tilt their heads to see the spiraling chariot-races of the squirrels.
When the storm comes,
the hermit does not say “I told you so.”
We were all there for the augury.
He is not always good at his job.
In fairness, the listing we’d posted was for
a contradictory dwelling.
Philosophy stays at the party past her welcome,
Wineglass in hand, enloudened and emboldened:
Look at them, these stupid people,
their coffee-stained teeth,
their dances and miscellanies,
their follies and ill-placed wishes.
I know, he says.
Look at them.
