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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Birthday

One more day,
and a day,
and a day,
and the years pile up.
Sawdust, vapor, countless conversations,
and the ropes
each twined in a knot.
Why?

On what birthday did I question
the lengthening of a life,
its excelsior,
the thing in a box,
rummaging for my answer.
And reasons for my why,
boyish wonder,
an old man’s loss,
the pictures,
the dots joined in endless epiphanies.
Why a young girl’s mouth,
why an endless argument.
Faith in the unpredictable,
the sacred
known before I ever knew a church.
The visitation to a man assuaging doubt.
Why you say,
the silt flowing from a distant source
into the delta of a life.

I am old,
but I was old before I was young,
I knew loss before first love
carried me away.
A day within a day,
my luggage,
countless memories,
gifts, playthings.
Should I say,
I’m here with everything I’ve gathered,
stones that burn brighter than a fire,
a ball worn out from throwing?
Papers torn from all my books,
pictures holding faces
I love beyond all measure.

Here I am,
hungry at the end,
wanting more,
until all my doubt
is washed away,
all the sticks
are piled neatly on the grass,
all the flowers
blooming turgid
in their vases.
My life,
my wandering,
did it count that passing?
The years were worth
what came my way?
The years lowing to a light
growing dimmer,
like a fire falling in the sea.

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