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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

My Father’s Box

There are lives inside this box
of little drawers,
holding paper and coins
on their felt bottoms.
Lincoln head pennies scattered
like planets against a green sky,
wheat heads on their backs.

The drawers are flawless,
every dimension of the box
built by a master artisan,
a toolmaker who painted
portraits of ships,
a dreamer who took pine boards,
like earth fashioning flowers,
and built a box for letters,
school reports,
the notice of his son’s death in battle.
Odd receipts of payment,
little diaries almost empty
except for their first fragile papers,
then abandoned.

I could write a long, long story
about these contents,
social security numbers,
letters from four sons,
all safe inside the chest.
And a man’s soul finding faith,
salvation in the relief of tools
and smell of pine,
the cutting and sanding of wood,
proof that he lived,
loved what he knew,
assuring me that the divine
is real,
and a carpenter.

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