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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Starting Off

There’s not much,
here or there,
that I can put on the table today.
The sun remains in a closet.
The fog trails down the street
like a discarded shirt.
The workweek begins
but there is no one out.
No one lingering to admire
the first crocus,
the red buds coming out
on the maple.

Voices are missing,
the busy gait of the children,
people stirring.
What can one do for today?
A silent beach?
A becalmed sail?
No stories from the past,
nothing beyond the overcast sky.
A day just starting,
but refusing to go on.

You could say that tomorrow
will be sunny,
yesterday was a peach.
Winter is gone
even before spring begins,
but that’s it.
That’s life in the year 2012,
before the next ice age,
global warming,
the birth of a new messiah
or a young fool.

Something,
somewhere is happening.
Waterfalls mixing it up
while I have coffee,
and watch the morning open,
gray and still,
while a comet
falls somewhere in glory.

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