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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Listening

I listen to arms and faces.
I listen to the way the eye looks,
the bond between the waves,
the gulf that blows its echo
with the wind.
I listen carefully to silence
and faces caught in repose.
I listen to the mouth cast in sleep,
the soft line or the hard line.
I listen to its deep poetry.
I listen to words not used,
the aviary of small thoughts
taken up in a flock of wings.
I listen as a way of seeing,
hearing, touching.
I take in the resonating pause,
the earth thinking.

I am an audience of one,
a shadow with its thoughts.
I go wherever I wish in the imaginal sky.
I am never alone,
never without the hum of conversation going on.
Everything speaks to me
because I listen,
I care.
I am learning how the stone feels,
how the air longs for its face,
how the wasp leaves behind its stinger,
how the meadow claps with its other song.

And they all come to tell me
of their lives,
of destiny seen from the darkness,
the height,
the transparent arms of a symphony.
And because I am an audience,
I have friends
who do not mind where I am.
They come to have me listen,
to make their day.
Sh…do you hear them?
Cicadas dreaming.

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