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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Pool

The meridian of July
gleams like a Sistine Chapel,
blue as the eyes of Icelandic girls,
the polished white of cloudy Pietas.
The afternoon humming with silence.
Jackie splashing in his plastic pool,
the hose lifted in his hand,
water of blue silver,
flashes.
Streaks of lightning,
his mouth tasting
the flow of forget-me-nots and stars.

A boy with his boats and buckets,
red chair in the center,
a part of the tide,
the motion of time.
His Mema and Papa watching,
his fingers darting
like little fish in the water.
Jackie sees only the flow
of invisible waves,
plastic rings of orange and yellow,
bobbing like lilies.
A bird flailing his arms
as if to fly,
as if the world could lift him
into the transparent air,
weightless and dripping.

Mema reminds him,
in a moment he must go in,
leave behind his boats and buckets.
And shyly he smiles,
knows each smile nets him a reprieve.
“One last more, Mema,
one last more,” he says.
And she nods,
as long as he likes,
as long as the earth can live.

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