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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Wind Socks and Other Things

I sway with the wind sock’s arrow.
I move with the dance of a mime,
following the invisible lead of the wind.
A tethered wing.
The breeze is such a good dancer.
I should have joined it before
and not been a wallflower
waiting for an invitation.
Last night I raised my arms
to the sky,
to hold hands with heaven.
I listened to the thunder of a storm
last week,
and pounded a drum in front of me.

It did not matter that the drum
was imaginal.
That I smiled at a sky without lips,
that rain was a waterfall,
and that flowers bloom at midnight
as bright as they do in sun.
I love the walls of shade,
the new mirrors polished in a shower,
rocks with infinite angles and fissures,
the elastic ribbons of time.
The vespers of praying mantises,
of which two make a home with me.
That the earth’s books are three
dimensional,
and that some day
I will evaporate and become fog,
belonging to everything
and never be lonely.

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