Here, in this hermitage in the woods, sat a man with his typewriter a half-century before. Thousands of words, from his spirit, through his gloves, touching millions of souls, and moving my own. An aching heart, a furious mind, his only antidote: to write. A complex man, a simple life, his truest reality: Christ inside. I told Brother Paul I'd like to walk where Merton walked. We hugged on the porch where his soul had danced.
By Stephen Copeland
This poem was first published on copelandwrites.com.