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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Empty Nest

through the heat of summer,
I determined to thin
the wisteria vine off my porch.
Its flowering had mimicked
the purple grapes in weeks
to come, swelling with the
juices of the sun, rain,
and heat,
teasing the languor
of a summer nap waking
to the tart sweetness of wine.

I worked quickly in the
hot temperature, clipping out
the shade,
the smell of chlorophyll,
the green foliage,
hostels for mites and insects,
and almost finished,
I hesitated at a remaining
cluster of leaves.
There are presences
in everything we do,
hunches that tell us
to stop,
proceed with care.

I paused and laid my clippers
down, and like a still house
inviting a peek into its shadows
I parted the leaves,
and was excited to see
a beautifully constructed nest
with two speckled eggs.
It had barely escaped my pruning.
Retreating, I rearranged
the shelter of the vine
and left it in peace.

For several weeks I watched
the care of the birds,
as the eggs hatched and the young
were sheltered and fed
until one day they were gone,
and I felt a continuance in them
like a little death exchanged
for the beauty of their living.
Life, one of me and us, forever.

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