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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Humidity

Morning.
Moist kiss.
Humidity.
Sultry bouquet.
I could not live in the desert!
Walk among the spines of desecrated needles.
Sit on rocks with scorpion tenants.
I once did guard duty at a crossroads,
and keeping lookout for the officer
of the guard, sat down on a stone.
A dry, desolate day in Arkansas.
Then it occurred to me
to check my rear guard.
Tipping the stone, there was a scorpion
as miserable as me.

Now in winter I live in a house too dry.
The temperature semblance of spring
and summer missing,
I put a pot of water on the stove.
Brought it to a boil and in moments,
my eyes lidded.
I was at the shore
with the vast reach of the ocean
taking hold of its son.
Summer returned with breath
moist as rain.
Humidity!
I was on a river banked by green,
wood and pasture.
A man of humidity!
Heart soft as a blueberry.

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