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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Gathering

Where will we gather for Thanksgiving?
There are so many places I have been.
Some I have shared,
some I have not.
The earth fills up the cracks.
Time covers over the ridges of my heart.
Coming to the table
I bring the fullness of my life.
We toast each other,
a wind that passes without sound,
echos of names we can’t remember
or won’t forget.

The children laugh,
waiting for the words to dissolve,
to be forgotten,
for treats to be passed and consumed.
So I toast the room
and say how light the day is,
how pure the feast,
how love holds us,
and pushes us away.

But the house inside me is quiet.
Its windows are open to night.
A child looks out and discovers time.
Only so long and everything will end.
A chair will be vacant,
but pass the bread, the pudding,
everyone will be here,
seen or not,
Thanksgiving.

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