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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Meadow Flowers

The coverlet of night
has exhausted me.
Time and again I rose.
Where am I, I asked,
and closed my eyes
looking for my sleep world.
Rooms without hallways.
People who could answer
my questions.
But the dark had no face.

The dark made no sound.
I was no where between
sleep and wakefulness.
I begged for slumber
to put its lips on my eyes
and close them.
Someone to say,
you can walk with me.
You are free to go
where your heart is.
Where your strength can stand.

Then, a glow opened the window.
I heard the world stirring.
The chirping and yawning of birds.
At last a place where I
could go.
A place at the edge of tide,
and for an instant I slept
and then returned.
I woke restored,
glued together,
as if the light were blessing me
and the tracks I left on the night
would glow
in the moon light of a meadow.

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