In his journal, Emerson writes of walking with Hawthorne, talking with Thoreau, Carlyle’s latest book, and Tennyson’s new poems. In mine, I write of you, in terms of my own plain self. And this is our wealth: that we are each a funny blend of science and superstition, of pain, nerve, and luck. And this is our grief — the loss of dear Waldo, Emerson’s five-year-old son.
August 4, 2019
Front Walk
Instead of graves, why don’t we scatter like these geranium petals?
Poems, Slightly Used, July 21, 2009
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces, Poems, Slightly Used
Tags: Carlyle, Death, Diaries, Emerson, Geraniums, Grief, Haiku, Hawthorne, Journals, Old Books, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Tennyson, Thoreau
William Michaelian 