Walden
What did I learn
Between the beanfield and the pond?
Trying not to step on chipmunks, I sat
Down on dry leaves and pine cones.
Birdsongs mingled
With drizzling echoes of Route 2.
Prison bars--stone spikes--surround
The one-time hovel site.
The woodpile is recalled in a
National Park-type monument,
Grave-marker grey.
Everything brown and auburn, high
Trees to dirt, washing over the eye.
Just to the north, the cairn:
150 years of stone
Piled sideways, thanks to gravity.
There I left my own, and something else,
Too indefinable and elusive for telling,
In this mid-morning misty air.
Linda Brown Holt
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