Living Space – Henry Thoreau

What square-footing did he have
in the world, living little
indoors, large
outside – anachronism
another way of saying
timeless which some
see as eternal – lair
fitting nicely the proportions
of his human animal
five foot seven and
let’s say 140 pounds
there he is “rapt”
in his doorway on
his limen “in revery.”

It’s deep summer nothing
lasts; he knows autumn
tints are on the way
the tubercular seed will
flare and droop the
scarlet oak will hold its
red a long time,
but today he is exactly
between worlds so
at home that even the birds
flit “noiselessly through
the house” suspended
above its 150
footprint.

“I grew in these seasons
like corn in the night,”
he will write
effectively closing
the loop of a day
encircling a lifetime
squaring its effect
again and again –
it ripples out still
reaching me in my slat
of sun by an open window
far from the pond
these 160 summers later.

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