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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Touching Fate

I pick up things that must be found.
Small stones that have nowhere to go.
Nothing ever picked them up
and touched their faces.
Since time began,
no one held them for a second,
or greeted them,
said hello to their inanimate hardness,
holding the substance of a star.
Brought up by shovels,
a thousand at a time,
until in a way we find each other,
joined in a lattice
that holds us together and apart.
Object to object,
surface to surface,
changed by our coupling,
and the making of a universe.

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