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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Poor Day

Like a puppy it prances.
Runs about the room chasing shadows.
Day with no history.
Virgin country.
Hours asking for play.
Conversation.
Poor day with only me
to take it out.
Mumbling.
Complaints.
What am I to do?

I whine,
what’s the weather like?
If it’s sunny,
it hurts the sleep in me.
If it’s cold, I cover myself and pout.
Rain, what can I do in the rain?

All the time
I realize how rare you are.
How few I will ever have.
Choices beyond comprehension.
Like a giant library,
and I want to find a book,
as if the shelves were bare.
And while I complain,
love stands in the corner.
Joy stays in its magic box.
Flowers droop and close their petals.

Then a knock at the door.
I open it, but nothing’s there.
No…something touched my cheek.
A bird glides above me.
I hear subtle, mellifluous sounds
of moving about.
A whisper in my heart, saying,
this is home.
This is the perfect day.
This is your soul for the asking.
For you, the world will wait,
but not forever.

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