WRITING ON WALDEN POND

Time seems unapproachable
or my abstract words
left undone
you swear a garden angel
could appear here on the grass
as hunger leaves us
we gather shells and stones
taking an oath to nature
by the ragged shore
where Thoreau still walks
dreaming alone
on an Indian blanket
then bathing in the waters
under a dreamt sunshine
of a hundred years lore.