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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

February Winter

I am quite philosophical
in the winter.
Nothing to do.
Looking around.
Following the festivals of Christmas,
New Year’s,
makeshift holidays for dead presidents,
and then sit still and wait for spring.
Rearrange spoons on the table,
bottle time for later living,
and say outrageous things to myself.
Pretending to know what’s what,
and chasing people away.
Once I did that.

I say things to myself,
and wonder where the snowdrops are.
The little bells of winter.
The only flower,
mixed up,
blossoming in the cold.
I think I will fall into my solecism,
redesign the seasons,
declare a moratorium on February,
and stop loathing
a perfectly beautiful time.
Only now,
can I see so deeply in the woods.

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