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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Letter

Forty-five years and not a whit of difference
between now and then.
A whit of difference between myself
and then.
A letter of love to my dearest friend
and companion.
A flower of September’s love.
Meadow of our beginning.
Time circles her,
protects her,
protects me.

She is a season that doesn’t change.
I am going from one room to another
with the same clarity,
the same omnipresence of loving her,
time gone by.
Rain from a hundred times,
a hundred openings and closings
of day and night.

The letter is a lettuce leaf of freshness.
Puts me where she is,
where we are.
The soul of our faces un-aged.
In some fashion,
a letter written every day
without a comma changed,
part of the world meant to stay,
while letters written in the heavens
compose themselves and fade.
Where we are,
we are,
barely just begun to live.

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