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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Under My Pillow

Oh yes!
I am seeing.
I am by the wall of a white house.
The green chill of moss
under a faucet.
I am three, perhaps four
smelling apples by the window.
Our tree with its yellow fruit
rolling on the sandstone.
Watching the drip of water
coming from the spigot
sunrise and lilacs,
pussy willow.

My bare feet on the grainy stone.
Grass full of dandelions.
A road of gravel,
a spine of train tracks
in the middle.
I feel the air brush me,
hear my breathing.
Look at my small hands.
What have they touched?
I remember your legs
bruised with climbing.
At the bottom of time,
the cave under the pillow,
the chirp of birds in the darkness.

Oh little me!
Say hello to me!
Touch the bark of the apple tree,
hear your mother’s voice
calling to us.
Sit on the porch
and watch trains go by.
Curl dandelion stems into rings.
The day never closes,
sounds keep calling.
The sky is blue as morning glory
and I wonder what becomes of us.
Or who sees me
watching you,
and who sees us,
watching us.

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