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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


They say the minerals in our bodies
are worth only a few dollars.
Worth more than dirt,
but not much more.
Yet they say, earth is made of stardust,
of which we are made,
not including dreams,
the will of iron,
and rain falling from our eyes.

What I am really worth
I don’t know.
What you are worth, my beloved,
is truly stardust
and moonlight,
and the blood flowing in a rose.
How did the hard granite of the earth
fashion the soft joy of your smile,
and the continuing poetry
of your heart?

Perhaps dust contains something
called the word,
and it truly became light,
and built palaces of wings
and eyes and feet,
and a man who lets the dust
fill his hand and wonder,
what will it become?
A palace,
a child,
a shadow crossing the sky,
or a voice
laughing and playing,
and saying,
I love you, dust though I am?

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