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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Birthday

The waves wash the feet
of the stone.
Light falls through the
golden coreopsis.
The jade of maple trees
loom above the pier.
Freighters glide like
black islands,
appearing and disappearing
on the horizon.
A piece of me refuses to die.
To go away.
A boy sucking the stems
of day lilies for their nectar,
a scintilla of sweetness.

He embraces his knees
looking out to the lake.
It is May time.
His birthday.
He has a conversation
with himself.
Sunfish swim in the shallows
like flowers.
How old am I he asks,
trying to understand
the number.

I listen,
as air moves through
the rushes.
I do not exist yet,
but I come anyway,
to say silently,
happy birthday.
To redeem the end
of his story,
this part of me
that explains who I am.

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