Quiet, quiet.

Exegesis of perfect prose.

I want to live there.

Not on your pond, but upon your pond in prose.

Find the softness, the clarity in speaking.

The God who calms, absolves,

Follows quietly over bracken and branch,

The trees black pillars

In the long vaporous light of morning.

The sounds of villages distant.

The distant train retreating.

I hear you speaking.

Not a possible life,

I hear.

But a possible heart.

I hear,

A possible self.

I hear

Quiet. Quiet.


//H. D. Thoreau//