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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Time and Again

What is this
between me and clocks?
A clock in every room.
Around my wrist,
parceled out in hexagons,
glass faces,
standing in corners like
abandoned children.
All this in homage
to the invisible.
The oscillation of gears,
the rhythm of the heart,
a prophesy of continuance.
As if there is no end
to the traveling of waves,
wings above the earth,
the waltz of chaos
turned to music.

It’s what I sense in trains,
in planes overhead.
That we are always exchanging places,
the continuity of currents
in a river.
The falling of a voice in space
breathing and exchanging vows.
The clocks around me?
My existential soul taking note
of itself.
Life coming and going,
somewhere between now and then.
For whom the bell tolls,
those I love,
for whom is you,
caretaker of me,
love at first sight
in everything I do,
time and again.

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