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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

No

No.
There was no poem today.
The words were eggs
Un-hatched in the tall nest,
warmed by their mother’s body.
Becoming life,
in a bud wrapped tight
with air,
rain,
the fog of night.
Not ready.
Still,
with the fermenting promise
of sleep.
Dreams being painted.
Sound being composed,
until one day, soon,
their shells will shake with promise.

The syllables,
taking form,
will unite,
and the vowels and consonants
will become thunder,
rivers running.
The voices of children,
the rising of a mother’s call,
and in the nest,
the words will bare themselves
into love, hate, destiny.
The talk of angels and loneliness.

A poem will perch
shivering in the dawn,
listening to its heart,
then fly off to find its poet.
To find her singing by a window,
holding a child,
or a man,
going off to show his children
horizons they have never seen,
and the nest will wait again
for the mother to return,
and the birth
of a new poem.

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