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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Winter, so austere
left me tired
returning home.
My breath labored
in the cold.
The light rinsed
without warmth,
or even substance.

My eyes wandered
along the edge of the walk,
and, so happens,
when a face stops
and sees you
in the mirror of a window,
something beautiful
catches your eyes.

I saw a yellow crocus
bright as a chaste sun
at dawn
by my step,
and I felt light
as a feather
as if it were a kiss
that was mine for seeing.
the simplicity of life
wanting love,
and finding a bouquet
at its door.

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