Sounds

I sat in my doorway, wrapped
in pines and solitude and
the noiseless sun falling on the distant highway.
Time grew seasons like corn in the night, and
I realised what the morning and evening and
the birds silently suppressed:
My days were days of idleness and flowers,
The calm theatre of the fresh grass,
the pond, the morning sun –
life everlasting under blackberry vines
and strawberry leaves.

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More found poetry, from Walden, Chapter 4 - Sounds, by Henry David Thoreau. Absolutely adoring this book.
Sorry this is a little difficult to read.