St. Patrick’s Day

At dawn the hermit hikes along the creek,
High and white with recent rain. Beneath his feet,
Old leaves scuffle. Everywhere, trilliums break
Through, three-leaved, the Trinity on repeat,
Surprising him each time. Again, again
They show themselves among the silent trees,
Too bare to give the wind its voice. A wren
Calls alarms, sweet and shrill, and in his knees
He feels a thrill, as if the bird had warned him
Away from some steep precipice, unseen
In fog. Though the day breaks clear, a scrim
Falls, a bright curtain, opaque between
Himself and the world. Now, his vision’s dim.
Then he sees them: trillium, trillium, trillium.