The city hustles on outside my walls
And seems to make a decent day of it.
I sometimes hear its muffled, trilling calls
But still in here I choose to stay and sit
Writing to you, imagining your face
Not being altogether like a monk
But still somewhat inclined to keep in place
In meditation deep so often sunk.
I think of you, and how it would be were
You by my side, and we could go together
Out to the world (which I would much prefer
No matter what the bustle or the weather)
But since you are not there, I choose to be
Sometimes (not always) secreted with me.
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