To Thoreau


From the woods near his home.

There is a giant crater filled with moving glass, and up above another one, filled with infinite blue, surrounded by light, surrounded by pine. Above and below two craters that cannot be filled. I am here at Walden pond, a ways away from where you built a humble home to ponder and perceive, perhaps pick out some meaning which you had thought could not be found in the city. But here where the wild grass is trembling, barely holding onto flowery caps, here where the wind is an invisible yet powerful breath, here in this moment, only gratitude escapes the pen and writes itself upon my page.



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