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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Finding Catawba

It is a gift to see
how Catawba once loved us.
Welcomed our fences,
the large verandas
with cottages in the center,
like wooden daisies
beside the swells of the lake,
daylilies reaching
with orange planets
into the sand.

In winter fragments of snow
blowing into the woods,
grapes and little ferns
sheltered by bushes
in the spring.
Summer expanding into trees
and gardens with sensual arms,
its humidity falling over
the unpainted sills of windows.

Light falling through the cracks
and fissures of floors.
A camp for the wet faces
of children,
and old hands holding sticks.
Here, off this lane
from a century of pavement
and wheels,
robins lay blue eggs.

The grass grows like a flower bed.
Vines hang playfully from branches,
and a generation of lost croquet
and balls returns,
with bare feet,
picnic baskets,
cotton clothes,
and sunshine
poured from Kool-Aid pitchers.

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