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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Digging

What do they find with their shovels,
opening the earth,
finding debris and artifacts,
searching for remains,
dead people,
cultures
that flew away like mist
on some forgotten morning?
Shouts of children,
dancing,
people of firelight and oil,
planting crops
in the dust that buried them.
Perhaps
we are looking for ourselves,
Our wonder at the galaxies overhead,
the darkness in the earth,
cold faces in the sea.

Can we find ourselves?
Here,
stop digging,
take my hands,
here is the woman I love,
here are the shoes of my children.
We eat, talk, make love,
tell each other stories
as they did.
We live among houses and streets,
leave notes to each other,
and you are looking in the dust,
digging as if you do not know us,
never heard us praying,
looking for each other.

Leave our loved ones alone who are sleeping.
Come to the table,
and we will tell you our secrets.
Let the ones harbored in death
be at peace.
Perhaps in a distant time
someone will look for all of us.
Let them be unknown.
There is only time enough now
for you to stop digging,
and do as they’ve done, live.

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