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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Retreat

Somehow we gathered
like birds on a wire line.
A retreat for Saint Patrick.
Something to do over Lent.
In the loneliness of our perch,
to see topaz coming up,
and fire going down.
None of us knew where we were.
High in the rarified stratosphere.
Cold with our prayers.
How did we end up here?

Where, mother, did you leave us
in the store?
Why, father, did you go away?
Brother, sister,
where is your shouting?
There is too much stillness.
We do not have a song to share,
one note to hum.
Child, I have not forgotten you.
You grew up,
went away,
died in my sleep.
I love you forever.

Some of us move closer,
forcing everyone to move.
There is a man down there
looking at us.
A whole highway of people.
The man feels our aloneness.
Are we cold?
Do we have enough to eat?
How long will we live?

Will we show up in his garden?
I can’t tell him.
The others look off in clouds.
Later we will go our separate ways.
Some of us will find food.
A few of us will never return.
Only the man saw us.
I do not see him now.

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