Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads
-- Henry David Thoreau
I don't think Henry wore a hat at Walden.
It seems his head was bared to every wind,
to sun and soil water bird and beast, even
to the woodchuck (though its undisciplined
consumption of his beanfield bothered him
at times). The laws of Concord didn't bind
him to a blind allegiance, nor was it whim
that led him to obey a different principle
than "thou shalt not." To skim
across the surface like a water-bug or lull
oneself to sleep with pious platitudes was
not to live at all. Living is the miracle
of choice pursued by few amid the buzz
and gossip of the nameless thoughtless crowd.
Here was a self-appointed prophet of the cause
of humankind: wild-man solitary saint who vowed
an endless exploration in the world of self and
stars. Though townsfolk scoffed, a cloud
of witnesses applaused silently at Walden Pond
where eyes ears heart emotion will and hands
caressed the world he'd come thus far to tend.