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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


It is natural to doubt
because the truth is not free.
It comes by pain and hard work.
A truthful man has calluses.
His lightness born of toil.
He does not work for widgets,
justify his existence,
ride herd on his fellows,
insult them by secret ways.
He understands because he cares.
He does not go to bed hungry,
refusing to think,
to smile at the sky.
His fear is that there is
not enough goodness in him.
Hours in the day
to read faces,
explore his soul.

The truth does not come easily.
It is often late
and charges no fee.
Always there,
it must be pursued,
given joy,
enticed like a lover
to give freely.
The truth does not weep
for status,
finagle for a title,
cast away the crystals
in the mud,
the deep fire of volcanoes,
the hard fastness of diamonds.

To entice it
one must keep still.
It won’t interrupt you.
When you are done talking
it will bare itself
humbly, like a child.
It is not a lawyer,
it doesn’t argue,
take a position,
nor sell itself like a merchant,
or frown haughty with its role.
It cares deeply only
for the child in you.
The one with an open heart,
the one who does not need mansions,
to guard himself from dawn.

It just sits with you,
not caring to be an executive,
to pin medals on itself,
and it laughs easily,
it is never shy,
but opens itself like a flower
exalting the light,
giving of itself,
and accepting you
like a dear friend
with everything it owns,
shared freely,
and yours for the asking.

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