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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

When My Day Is Done

Long ago,
before the first storm,
before hands shaped pottery.
Before puddles
became sea,
and flowers
lay like unshaped treasure
in the ground.
Before anyone
wove a cloth of cotton
made of summer,
or served milk from shells.

I stirred in the wine juice
of the tide,
fermented in the kelp garden
just off shore,
looked for strangers
on the sand.
And asked among starfish and clams,
when will my time come?
When will I see
the sky explode,
the dawn,
come like an angel
from the waves?

And it unfolded as it was.
The page of a nightingale opened.
Geraniums bloomed.
A woman’s voice called me to supper.
And as I went in I asked,
when is my time done?
And two lips kissed my heart
with an answer.

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