I stroll along the river bank and see
snapping turtles in the still, fecund pond.
Henry Thoreau look up; he waves to me.
He’s chopping wood and stops to wield a frond
of weed to keep the gnats away, but they’re
drawn by his heat, his sweat, the oil, the smell
of him. They’re caught in whiskers, in his hair.
I’m more than thrilled to meet the man himself.
Henry David, smiling, wipes at his head.
He steps into his hut to fetch the food—
a pot of beans, a hunk of cold cornbread,
a flask to pass in turns; the water’s good.
We don’t speak of Life or philosophy.
I have lunch with him; he has lunch with me.