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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Coming Home

The house was still and sad
as I turned its knobs,
opening doors.
My presence made no difference
to the emptiness.
It was waiting for its family,
as if a melody
that played in its rooms
was silent until their return.

I looked out the window.
The garden,
for all its color
did not cheer me.
It seemed asleep.
Where was the family
that watered its flowers,
the children
that played in the dust
under the slide?

I told the house be patient.
Catherine and Chih,
Jack, Michael and Mark
are coming.
They will run up and down
the stairs tomorrow.
Rustle in the kitchen,
footsteps echo in and out
the doors.
The silence will fly away.
The goldfish will come to the glass
of its aquarium.
And everything will expand
as if arms encircled the sky,
and pitchers of light
overturned on the tables.

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