hermit haiku set

The bed is silken,
wide and cold, the libretto
moth-eaten and old

and yet I claps hands
in penitent prayer as
if I were Atlas

Ra's rays light my halls
where rapt I read with new eyes
the same worn old books

women come with crosses
and bread and olive oil, strong hands
and wheels of motion

weeds in the garden
dig in like wild, thorn-leafed flies
soon to buzz their last

the Grecian brick wall
is canvas for elf moss-painters
from Titania

my days are like jazz
or hymns: horns and scraps hemmed as
one garish garment

I send flowers for births
and write letters like Voltaire
baring my beat soul