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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

In Praise

Do not be angry
that I write so much.
That I rise
and look for a pen.
That I do not know myself
well enough
to live without words.
You do not know the joy it gives me.
How I wander from door to door
and it’s only my poems
that open them.
That soothe the cold on my face,
stop me trembling with a chill.

We are all lords of something.
I am a penitent.
I ask forgiveness for being given so much.
I can not consume a flower
before it’s faded.
There is a vast ocean of beauty
in the smallest blossom of a lilac,
a bluet,
the snow of a trillium.
But I can only absorb a demitasse,
a drop at a time,
and it’s gone,
leaving me bewildered.
Temples,
the vision of a street,
the endless tract of forest,
an ocean,
the sound of a shore
sticking like jewels to my palm.

For them I write words,
put together a few poems.
I don’t know what else to do,
except in this exasperating way,
I express my gratitude.
Like a bird
that has flown over the universe,
and can only sit on one small perch,
and praise beauty for what it is,
and keep singing
until I can fly no more,
my eyes filled with joy
to the last gleam.

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