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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Growing Old

Coming and going,
finding and leaving,
gazing through windows,
into windows,
and brushing the wind
from my hair.
How else to describe oneself?
I am not good
at the small talk of birds.
I can’t start like a lizard,
unflappable,
with a stone face.
Nor is my posture regal as a deer,
or my eyes
sensitive as a puppy’s.

The child in me sleeps a lot.
He has had a long afternoon.
I shake him occasionally,
asking,
are you awake?
Do you want to play?
Are you hungry?
And he looks back,
and sometimes,
something in his face
makes me sad.

Where are we he asks?
And I say,
It’s afternoon,
you are taking a nap.
I’ll call you in a few minutes
after I get the pool filled,
the sandbox ready.
And I let him close his eyes,
and I look out the window.
Forgive me,
for growing old, I whisper.
We’ll catch fireflies later.

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