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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Flowers of Winter

I put pot after pot of flowers
on the table.
Wherever the gray light hovers
like a wolf devouring itself.
Cyclamens, begonias, daffodils,
roses, whatever is for sale.
Valleys of crushed purple,
white flocks of baby breath,
life overflowing with the wet orange
of peaches.
I emptied my pockets buying them,
children of the sun.
I went to them opening my arms,
bringing them to my house,
until they fade
keeping away the dark,
like candles
going out one by one
inside me.

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