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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Love of My Loves

Thistles,
pale as rinsed, blue sky,
tall as slender girls.
Touch-me-not flirts
in the naked meadows
of the sun.

I look about,
remembering your faces,
not to forget
the hour of your garden.
Everything now, cashing in.
The wild wilderness of summer,
lovemaking in the rain,
the solitary dreams
of shadow naps, join
the tick-tock rhythms of decline.

The breathing of the day slows
with the diminution
of love and sex.
Starry forget-me-nots wink out.
Who can forget the emptied glass,
eyelids closing,
where you were
when the moon fell
like a flaming orange?

Autumn chrysanthemums,
so lavish,
so rich,
they are the lava
of a final eruption,
a volcano blooming
in the throes of our extinction.
But I will come back
above the twilight of the snow,
the darkness of the dunes,
and call out all your names,
wanting your embraces,
the passion of our lives to be
together once again.

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