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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


I will note when Michael played trains
with Jackie and me.
Three months and a week
in the lattice of his life.
He spoke with his eyes,
smiled with a great sun,
spoke with magical words,
as he sat in my arms
watching Thomas the tank engine.
James the red locomotive,
a boxcar ahead on the bridge,
the coming and going of a train
as I kept him informed
of its travels.

So sunrise came up,
sleep threw off its cover,
air became purity.
Michael had his place
with Papa and Jackie,
while a page opened in his soul,
tingled through my arms,
and written on it,
a light-year said,
I am Michael,
child of lightning,
coming home.

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