Interiority

“I am myself the matter of my book.” 
               – Michel de Montaigne



With moss and twigs, I build 
a diorama. Branches knock against it

in wild weather. Tiles of slate 
loosen in wind. Here, I clear a small 

space, cover the walls with questions
like Montaigne did in his citadel.

But my retreat isn't made of stone,
and the hours I spend here are not  

as leisurely as I'm sure his were. 
How many days will it take to arrive 

at the smallest room, and what flint to strike 
for warmth and light? In this work of inwardness, 

the dark is not necessarily made of grief, 
the silence not necessarily an ending.