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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Birthday

Why do I have a birthday,
sing songs,
open presents to amuse the people
around me?
To have lived so many years
is an amazement to me,
but no great accomplishment.
It is the elemental,
the waterfall,
the drift of continents,
that pushed the years away.
That which fills a seacoast with eternity,
puts fire in a poppy,
creates deserts out of stone,
and breaks a heart with a beautiful face.

So I lived whether I had any say in it,
or not,
but it is a charming time to be born,
in the middle of spring,
the beginning of May in Ohio.
Red buds in bloom,
trillium in the woods,
rue anemones with their graceful heads,
taking another peek at the earth.
Someday they may evolve into trees,
but that is another story.
It is a wonderful time though,
like the twilight of waking
in a sunny room.

Did I travel anywhere?
I know I did,
whatever flows off unto itself,
like the years,
but I never mastered the sanctity of knowing
something of their meaning,
which with my breath
I can now blow out like
little stars, little fires.
Something hurts in my heart
and I don’t know what it is.
Wonder at myself?
At life? My birthday?
A bluebird looking for a rainbow?

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