hermit year (reprieve)

How I once delighted in the thought

of folding endlessly into myself,

cradled in the quiet of only-child solitude—

a life I once treasured, now trembling.

The bridle tightens, my mane pulled

into clumsy yet unmistakable truths:

this was never how it was meant to be—

a single stall, the world blurred at my periphery.

I turned to poor company—screens—

to hearts that lit red,

to the comfortless rhythm

of ones and zeros winking at me.

I havent liked a single thing I've 'liked'

for weeks now.

And dreams of tomorrow?

Even poorer company still.

I should return to galloping—

wind, sun, and the wild beating

of hooves beside me:

the ones who loved me

even when I could not love myself.

I am tired,

worn from polishing in private—

the dull ache of unseen work

never meant to shine for anyone.

Let the viral posts wait. Let the inbox swell.

Let the to-do list yellow in the light.

Perfection is a myth I no longer feed—

its never ending need,

its reward, dust.

My dry mouth wants more.

My hermit year was not meant

to bury me deeper in shadow

but to lift me—

strong flanks, bared teeth—

northward, where I know I belong.

The South has broken me in.

Now, I lean not on pride

but on God,

and on the goodness found

in crooked lines, spilled ink,

and half-built sanctuaries.

Until I arrive at the homecoming

I’ve been hungering for

all my life.