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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

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I play ball with Aaron,
shout at Olivia,
spy Michael behind a tree.
Jack tosses me a ball
and I catch his open sweetness,
blow bubbles at Greta and Mark,
wave at Drew.
Where did all these lovely children
come from?
How did this street become miraculous?

How does one
catch happiness in their hands?
Take recess from fears and sorrows?
Who started this blooming trellis?
So many flashes in the air.
Voices, composing songs
like Billy Joel.
What happened,
taking a walk through time,
living,
slamming doors,
falling over fences,
and then this clear beautiful place
all started.

We are mothers and fathers,
people secretly awed,
hugged by fate,
kissed, and kissed
over again.
We are children,
whose eyes
look down from stars,
and find gifts like these
at the bottom.

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