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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

On the Eighth Day

You think you’re the only one
who sits on the edge of the bed,
unable to get up?
The only one in a world of clanking,
who has to hold their ears,
feather the silence?
What makes you different?
Toes, hands,
a heart that can break.
Are you a warrior of sorrow,
complaints, bad back, aching?
Are you all alone?

Everyone outside is silent,
a vast multitude,
and they wait with hushed breath
for you to make it.
They place bets,
give knowing glances,
a horse race.
Can he rise?
Can she stand?
Can conflicted lovers for a moment
end their differences,
exchange a kiss?
You see,
we are not alone.
It takes courage to rise,
splash water on your face,
pay the bills, ad infinitum,
forget we were children.

Rise on the eighth day
and leave to God his seven.
That’s what he put in us,
our own day,
our struggle,
our moment in the dark.
That was what it was before creation.
Before the moon was put in place,
flowers painted,
the sea filled up with light,
the firmament scattered,
for the first day of our lives,
and his prayer,
his solace for the children
put in Eden.
He gave us a day among days.

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