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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Michael

Michael is one year old today.
Triumphant,
he walks through the house
with a smile.
He has a joy in walking.
It is not wasted.
And everywhere is a place to see.
Tin cans in the trash,
a basket of toys,
cars going past the window.

If we were eagles
we would not see as well as he.
I have forgotten all the treasures.
The piece of lint shining on the rug.
The smell of chairs,
the slickness of leather,
climbing stairs,
pulling cords and strings.
Nothing left undone.

Paper to tear,
toys thrown to the floor,
sounds made in the throat,
screams being born,
learning names,
words,
and opening doors
to let out the dark
and let in the sun.
Happy Birthday, Michael.

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