Holding still for Maxham’s daguerreotype—
his eyes glazed as if reading a tax bill,
neckbeard a crescent thicket, curdled stipe
of his boutonniere cuddling left lapel—
he’s gazing back perhaps at Walden Pond,
sun dazzling birch-lined shore; or studying
just-sharpened pencil, how he searched to bond
graphite and clay. He’s 39, dying
sap-flow slow from two decades of TB.
Six years left, he’ll write of autumn, forest
trees, wild apples; cross the Great Lakes, and plea
for John Brown. He’ll smile when dubbed anarchist,
read from Civil Disobedience.
Tell
his dear aunt of God, We’ve never
quarreled.
Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2013
