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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

April

The ebb and flow of seasons,
of hours,
of cloth covering a coffin,
of turning pages on a blank,
unwritten diary.
Who can know what happened
if no one speaks?
Gathers their words together,
short as they are.
They are the only fruit left behind.
The only witness to the drab
and beautiful,
to faith and despair.

So a dreary day makes me
turn inward.
Then an emphatic no!
What little light there is,
I want it!
However thin its radiance,
I need it.
I cherish it.
However lost, I feel,
I am not,
as long as I claim myself.

Looking at the sky in overcast
I praise it for its subdued serenity.
Its half opened lids,
and say,
I love the color of your skin,
your soft gray eyes,
open like a beautiful bride
wanting to be loved and consumed.

Day with April colored hair,
I want you to rain inside me.
To open your flirting lips and ask,
will you say something
in your diary about me?
And I nod, smiling, and reply,
I care so much for having you,
I will carve my words
on a page a million years old,
stone sculptured like a bride.
Ted and his day.

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