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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Little Grave

So much distance.
The sun setting at my back.
Whose pet was I,
little dog?
You are a star
desolate in the cold.
Afternoon
has burned itself away.
Time means nothing anymore.
What happens when we die?

You became so still.
Your warmth stayed against me.
Then,
the cold came.
I wept.
I buried you in the cold.
How peaceful grief becomes!
I still look for you.
I still wave good-bye.
Will you find me
when I’ve gone?

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