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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Paper Bird

He did not break in the nest,
his shell cast off.
I look outdoors at the sky,
a pale shell.
I see an occasional sparrow,
a morning dove,
perched high in the barren branches.
I look at what I created
out of paper,
yellow origami.
A bird with stiff bright wings,
alert head,
white beak.

I’m tempted to place him outside,
a finch quivering in the winter air.
He is bright and cheerful,
a playmate for the other birds.
Fallen from the sun,
through the clouds,
through the mist
and emerging among us.

My fingers go to my lips,
like a nervous parent.
Be careful now,
do not let him fall,
watch out for rain.
He is new!
Tell the other birds be careful
but come play with him.

He is made of gold,
sunlight.
He is not meant to be here long.
My fingers curl upon themselves,
let him go,
give him his freedom.
To live
you must prepare to perish
if no one is to forget you,
yellow, bright, and joyous.

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