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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Piano

It plays its own silent music.
I have not touched the keys for days.
It waits for me to come.
It says, play me.
I have songs that must be heard.
I have stored up rain,
love,
tango and percussion.
I want someone to dance
around my harp.
The room to be filled with voices.
Notes to fill the emptiness of the room.
The garden to come inside
and touch my strings.

You know I am alive.
You have heard my heart.
You have listened as I cried
and called out my rhapsody.
We have been one many times.
Made love together.
Your hands have stroked my keys
and I sang,
sometimes a single note,
at midnight,
like an iridescent bell,
a bat whistling,
a creak in the stairs.

The memory of a father
going up to kiss his children
and sing the lullaby
that he heard in me.
The sound of our souls joined,
and speaking together
in perfect pitch.
Still traveling
like a dream pursuing a song
sounding on shores
where no one goes,
except the wind
which bring it back to us.

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