Breaking the hermit door | P. C. Moorehead

Birth

Each day is so long,
a little eternity in itself,
but an eternity of disbelief and nearing despair,
of forlorn hope and lack of loveliness,
a long night when my face is shut,
and my mind is involved,
and no one knows,
nor can I say,
what this is,
borne within me,
a new self,
uncreated,
belonging to You,
a stranger here.

No Explaining

Here, where there is no explanation,
I exist.

Here, in silence,
I am.

Here, before you,
I stand.

Here, I bow.
I am.

Opening

Breaking the hermit door was fun,
pulling down the wood,
wearing away the hearth,
hurling myself against its strength.

The door held for a long time.
Then, a crack appeared.
It became a chasm,
letting in light, and openness, and hope.

I waited patiently.
The door shuddered.
It died.
I lived.