Holy Man

He has carved the psalms
into his biblical face,
knowing and preaching
to those who would listen.
I found him waiting in the mountains,
alone but for the words
he wrote himself.
Eagerness,
he said slowly and carefully,
makes fools of us all.
I asked him how long
he had hidden himself
behind winter winds and his whitened beard.
Too long, but too short.
That is all I can say, he said.
He closed his eyes cautiously.
Waiting for me to speak.
My lips did not open.
But he understood.
He handed me his carving knife.
And by the time I climbed back
off that mountain, my
wrinkles read like
a novel.