Breathing in the cold,
            we let the lonely
                        beauty

of the pond grab us
            by the throat,
                        unaware

Thoreau did more here
            than write about
                        dandelions

and whippoorwills,
            the loon that laughs
                        so loud.

That he’d come here
            to grieve the deaths
                        of John,

his elder brother,
            and little Waldo.
                        All we knew then

was his book, the rebel
            streak that landed him
                        in jail.

We stood there like two
            disciples, struck
                        by the intense

quiet. Years later
            I came back in summer,
                        the pond hot

and noisy, crowded
            with swimmers, boaters.
                        I missed

the thrill of snow
            in April, the blood-
                        red sun

blowing up the sky,
            the black boughs
                        of trees.

I missed the air charged
            and holy, the wordless
                        wanting to stay.