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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Without a Dream

Gray rain today.
The shower of a last dream,
when I woke to a summer resort,
but no, it is a dream
that lived in summer, months ago.
Then each day,
minutes warmed in sun
slept longer.
The dawn found a different hour,
the amber of the sun deepened,
from pale gold to rose,
to eyes of softened light,
her voice softer with a pause,
the season turning down
the lights.

A sweater for her shoulders.
The presence of a cold relief
on my own.
So, a dream lingers
at the bedroom door.
The late day gone,
shadows reaching
through the windows
and the dream of summer passing,
to the morning gray outside
without a dream.
Rain that in a day or two
could be flurries,
a comforter
for the world reclining.
Our dreams reaching for each other,
in each other’s arms.

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