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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

High Country

My legs are tired.
What makes them tired?
The street shows no trace of wear
from my walking.
I have never asked them
to do more than they can.
But standing up they ache
like losing one’s voice
before you speak.

It is perhaps what a bird feels
after a long migration.
Going south, as if winter
won’t follow.
As if time, weighing nothing,
never carries a burden.
Every second falling to the bottom
of an hourglass like a grain of sand.
Childhood flying in the sky
wingless.

A young man, and I carried
easily the burden of others.
Mature, I looked from windows
to see the weather.
I began to linger in the garden.
Now I carry a bag of dreams.
I am ready to go to high country,
where I can carry the vastness
below,
and say to myself,
I’ve been there.
It is where I lived.
Where I belong,
but my legs are tired.

The summit grows higher.
The view more spectacular.
I take a deep breath.
I sit and put my chin
on my knees.
Love keeps following,
and I wait for it.
My legs are tired.
I tell them,
thank you for bringing me.
I want to see everything
inside my soul,
where all the loving
still goes on.

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