Eremite

—Katounakia, 2007 The cave itself is pleasantly austere, with little clutter—nothing save a narrow slab, a threadbare woolen wrap, and in the chipped-out recess here three sooty icons lit by oil lamp. Just beyond the dim cave's aperture, a blackened kettle rests among the coals, whereby, each afternoon, a grip of wild greens is boiled to a tender mess. The eremite lies prostrate near two books—a gospel and the Syrian's collected prose—whose pages turn assisted by a breeze. Besides the thread of wood smoke rising from the coals, no other motion takes the eye. The old man's face is pressed into the earth, his body stretched as if to reach ahead. The pot boils dry. He feeds on what we do not see, and may be satisfied.