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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


I am defenseless.
I leave the door unlocked.
My life is like a curio shop,
boxes, magazines,
an attic full of forgotten ribbons,
heirloom roses,
old sweaters.
The years stored like will-o-the-wisps,
afternoons and evenings.

I wonder where everyone is?
Surely, they went somewhere
and will be back.
Fill the place with laughter
and shouting.
Or is this what’s left?
Does winter come
and leave nothing behind,
except roots buried in the earth?
Faces so fragile they resemble roses,
and people so dear,
I kept no list of their names?

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