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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Indian Odyssey

I see flights of Canadian geese
fly over,
in the bright blue of the morning.
My fingers go through the earth
to find you, Melissa.
To see your eyes,
your father saying a prayer
for your good rest, health and joy.
I have never heard the bells
and cymbals of India.
Seen the workshops making brass
vases and horns.

I read and reread the
story of invasions
on that ancient soil by mongols.
About Ghandi: the wanderer and
teacher.
But where is the coolness
of our air?
The limpid gold of our sun?
The openness of our streets?
In that land of languid midnights,
dusty villages,
humid silences.
I see you a world away,
wondering on what place
you are standing.

How does the water taste?
The sun trickle at the edge
of its shadows?
In what direction does it come
through your window?
Who do you see or recognize
in the multitudes of people
that remind you of ourselves,
where we were born?
What poem do you hear
gazing at the Taj Mahal
in the heart of Shah Jehan
for his beloved Mumtaz Mahal,
in a world of monsoons and mystery?

It’s comforting to know
the sun above me
was above you hours before.
That the moon found us
in the same night.
That life flies in its planes
and on its wings.

That your message
printed in the computer
tells me of the snake charmer
and his two cobras.
I read your words under a jade tree
watching Michael on a swing,
and you,
our precious link between
two horizons,
catching fire at once
in dawn and sunset.
My beautiful daughter
traveling in the ironies
of space, and time, and dreams.

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