Faithful

I live in a little hut—

it is my faith,

short walls, small door

no window or porch.

Actually, it may be

just now a shrine

raised roadside,

an eye-catcher

if one notices

if one is not blind,

or cross-eyed.

You amble by

stop

stand and call out.

Maybe I’m out back

ambling myself—

the woods never seem

to mind.

I’d have you in

but there’s hardly room anymore

even for me.

But I do come around,

I remember your voice

and the way you stand

and look straight at me—

Your gaze settles,

strikes some string

that lets you—

Lets you in

to pluck, to play.

It may be the only thing

left that still remembers

you and

how you are,

how you so gently

remember me

that delicate chord

grown silent.