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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Wine Cellar

I have a cellar of rare memories.
They belong to me like the sea belongs to me.
Like the bite of cold or fire.
They are stones and feathers.
Some too heavy to lift.
Some too light to ever keep
if they get away.
It is an alternate self,
and the only self that lived inside earth
rather than on it.
It involves years,
and no time that has a place.

Like wine, they taste of semblances,
a pitch of dirt, odor, illuminations.
Ambiences of inconsolable love,
strange storms that broke windows,
words that mixed tears and anger
in my mouth.
The anesthesia of a surgery,
and blends of dream and space
never to be rent by the light of day.

As I’ve grown older
I have discovered a strange youth.
An exaltation of seeing,
of becoming.
To know and not be afraid.
To find a place for things to belong to,
loved in the past,
and loved now with understanding
and gratitude.

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