Thoreau lamented from his ponderous pond-side
we do not fill all our pores with our blood
oh woh that the man felt half a man an arm
a leg
even if only the smallest toe
that blood left him lame.
Woh that such a man as this living
history we see in hindsight
woh that I now in the foresight of this Walden
pick up my brush
pick up my pen
pick up my arms
raise to the open sky
rain down rain down rain down fill my pores
multiplication of the fractions of
my life that is all that is needed
let history tell
of the blood spilled from my smallest toe