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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.
Poor day with only me
to take it out.
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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