A Book of the seasons: January 12.

January 12.

In winter what moves

us most is reminiscence 

of far-off summer. 

January 12, 1855

The tender buds attract us at this season,

no less than partridges,

for they are the hope of the year,

the spring rolled up.

The summer is all packed in them.

 January 12, 1855

Tender buds are the

hope of the year, spring rolled up

and packed with summer.

January 12, 1855

As deep the snow now,

it is easier walking

in swamps than summer.

January 12, 1856

Freshly fallen snow

sparkles with bright little suns,

each flake a mirror.

January 12, 1860

Bless him for wildness.

If he has voice I have ears.

We are one creature.

January 12, 1855

January 12. A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 12

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, I love you like I love the sky

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2022