Walden Pond, July 2001

by Amy Belding Brown

The cars backed up a mile
on both sides of the road,
awaiting entrance to
the wooded parking lot
while the pond sings blue
beneath hot, cobalt sky.
Heat purls upward
from the girdling sand
and dark trees dream
an ancient absent solitude.
Under the pilgrims' feet
acorns and small stones
abrade the tender soil,
the seeds of a necessary future
crushed in veneration's rite.
Blind tribal worship is
so frequently the instrument
of its own death.

July 16, 2001

Copyright © Amy Belding Brown