On a Passage in Thoreau’s Journals

 

A slight sound at evening pricks me up by the ears and makes life seem inexpressibly serene and grand. It may be in Uranus, or it may be in the shutter.

 

Or it may be
The thin language
Of leaves, after all,
Is no gauge
Of anything
Calling you at all,
Even if your ear,
Full of its small
Importance quivers
As trees murmur
Back and forth, back
And forth, you err
Pathetically
Eager for a breeze
To hold a message
To still trembling knees,
To feel hopes
Of the numinous.
More likely the shutter
Than Uranus.

 

Gregory Jerozal