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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Pussy Willow

The little boy inside me
has almost disappeared.
He goes to the pussy willow bush
and touches its flowers
of yellow fur.
There is chill in the air.
Why does he try
to keep me alive?
What is he hanging on to?
He helps make the years pass
and a peace has settled
in both of us.

He sits on the sandstone steps
of our house with me,
wearing his short pants,
legs bruised from play.
What we say isn’t said.
Somehow he knew I was
with him.
How strange to be older,
but younger than he is.
He seems to understand paradox
better than me.
Childhood as my older brother.

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