Walden

The pines sway back and forth.
The post of the swing shades my eyes perfectly,
so that the rest of me can bask in warmth.

I, myself, swing back and forth,
weightless, that sea of thought recedes,
eyes shut, staying silent as Hollowell.

The wind, through leaves, speak of everything,
an omniscient teacher, mentor only to those
who listen, to those who strive to stay at low tide.

But all too near I hear the sound of sleepers,
drowning in their ocean, tossed, turned,
sent in every direction except to shore.

The birds sing their rhapsodies, but only for Terrestria.
Never for the sea of silicon, both filled with
and deficient of; not for those whose inventions

shred the leaves who teach, home to birds who sing.

I strain to listen, to learn, to enjoy the scene
that’s sung to me, but discortant sounds of those
who’d rather drown than forgo slumber

chase away my masters, my all-redeeming.