I am a body
connected to all bodies
awake in the world.
~Zphx
 |
If I feel no softening toward the rocks, what do they signify? January 23, 1858
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I see a lichen
on a rock in a meadow,
a perfect circle.
I see my shadow
as a second person who
sits down on this rock.
Lichen-covered rock
naked in the moonlight and
warm as in summer.
Indian summer day.
Chickadees take heart and sing
above these warm rocks.
I sit on this rock
surprised one more time by the
beauty of the world.
May 22, 1854
October 7, 1857
I pause in the sun
as I climb the Cliff and sit
dreaming on a rock.
January 9, 1853
Beyond the brook
I sit awhile on a rock
below the old trough.
I sit on a rock
wrestling with the melody
that possesses me.
On this rock notice
the seeds of berries in the
droppings of some bird.
August 2, 1854
A cold and strong wind,
yet very warm in the sun,
a fly on this rock.
March 4, 1855
I sit on a rock
and wait for my pail to fill.
I hear the sap drop.
April 9, 1856
These rocks and trees are
personalities to me.
I reverence the stones.
I see Wachusett
from this rounded rock covered
with fresh pine-needles.
October 19, 1856
The stones are happy
Concord River is happy,
I am happy too.
I am that rock by
the pond-side affected by
each natural sound.
A brother poet,
one with the rocks and with me,
whose muse inspires mine.
May 12, 1857
Perhaps I could write
meditations under a
rock in a shower.
Sitting on this rock,
we hear the first wood frog’s croak
and begin to dream.
A blueberry leafs
on a dry rock in the woods
in a sunny place.
April 25, 1859
We sit on the rock
on Pine Hill overlooking
Walden's blue water.
October 14, 1859
If I were to discover
that a certain kind of stone
by the pond-shore was affected,
say partially disintegrated,
by a particular natural sound,
as of a bird or insect,
I see that one
could not be completely described
without describing the other.
that a certain kind of stone
by the pond-shore was affected,
say partially disintegrated,
by a particular natural sound,
as of a bird or insect,
I see that one
could not be completely described
without describing the other.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, I am a rock
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 © 2009-2019
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