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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Spring is Here

Perhaps it is the gloom
of impending war.
The long winter that overstayed its visit.
The human condition
which seeks order,
predictable rain,
rules for the road,
and passing legislation.
Whatever it is,
some or all,
the ides of spring is upon us.
The quickening of the air,
new shoots from the ground,
the passing of the ice,
and muddy shoes.

An angst in the heart
that comes and goes with the clouds.
How many journeys are left in me?
Should I observe Lent
or putter in the garden?
Write another poem,
or observe a silence that needs attention?
Perhaps it is spring,
the most temperamental of times.
The languor of summer,
the ambitions of fall,
the sleep of winter
are easy companions.

But spring gets on the nerves,
creates rifts in the soul,
demands love,
stays up all night,
and refuses to sleep in the day.
It is marmalade on the fingers,
a stone in the shoe,
flavors and perfumes
never encountered before,
and a time for people like me
to be young,
one last time or two,
and salute the sun
and the undefeated child inside them.

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