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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


The arms of winter
reach minute by minute,
day by day,
to the horizon of spring.
The quiet of the solstice,
a silent bell.
I listen to an age,
the cave of time.

This ellipse of seasons,
when I reach
into the dream of earth,
myself a dream,
a spiritus shed of daily labor,
and touch a spirit,
that shares the shadow
of itself with me.
As if saying,
for a moment all stars are one,
all touching, love,
all dark, also light.

The solstice opens its door,
where I watch the fall of snow,
each flake,
a work reciting
prayers of peace and faith.

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