Exile

Lately, I've wanted to be alone.
To leave home with nothing
but a few books and my favorite shoes.
Id like to live in the mountains,
but pleasantly, with a broad bed
and cheese and bread for my board.
No computers, no commute.
Just to sit with a pen (like now)
writing honest lines of poetry
that no one is likely to read.
Simple, harmless, with words and firs
for company, some music-
at night, the wind at the shutters,
in times of sorrow, the Psalms.