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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Weeks of rain.
Weeks of cloud and overcast.
It is a summer like no summer.
Early June, and if the trees
were not stuffed with green,
if the grass did not cover lawns
so luxuriantly,
if the evening did not come so late,
so near the solstice,
I would think summer went away,
refused to meet me one last time,
like a fickle lover,
following her own moon.
The door is still.
My notes tell me nothing.

Did she refuse to turn around?
Did her wonderful eyes look longingly
toward some unknown distance?
She is not here.
Summer is not here.
The morning came but the sun never rose.
The sky was a wall of lost expectation,
gray shadow and mist.
In two weeks the longest day
will arrive.
Will it be without her?
Will the roses stay uncut?
Will I leave the paper empty of words?
Will everything dear to me remain asleep?

I am lost because no bell rings,
no step sounds on the walk,
no letter arrives.
I have been stood up.
I wander from room to room,
go out in the garden,
dial non-existent numbers,
stand by the road looking.
Did I wake up too late?
Am I lost in limbo?
Did I lose summer?
Did I lose her,
reasons unknown?

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