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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


In the night
November came.
The grayest of all months,
following the brightest.
A phantasmagoric change.
Like the severed wing of a boat,
a wake sinking to the bed
of the river’s darkness,
a nautilus curled up
like a cherub.
Where did the sky go, it cries!
Why am I in this cold womb?
Then falls quiet under the silt.
What rescues its serene beauty?
How can the spirit cope
as the sun falls into a prairie of stars?
Only the snow, flirting in the air
of Thanksgiving,
the bells of Christmas,
and candles of Hanukkah.
pastel evenings melting in the clouds,
opening roads
like umbilicals to spring

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