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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Where the Grass Grows

I cannot explain childhood.
It is a mystery.
More real than the hand
I put on the table.
More faraway than the untouchable horizon.
Between here and there,
something broke.
A wall toppled over.
A road ended
and I don’t know where.

The man who looks,
rummages inside,
looks out basement windows,
does not belong in that country.
I don’t remember the language.
There was a silhouette on the wall,
grown and flown away.
From the crib I could see the face,
and then it disappears.

How many ages came and went?
Here child,
sit beside me.
Do not be afraid.
I am a ghost with laughter inside,
and tears that never dry.
What I am does not belong to you.
Do not try to know me.
The roots of my father
are inside us both.
But you are the flower.
You are the spring.

I remember each year
when the sun returns,
and nothing has changed
except the shore is further away.
Go and play.
You justly
belong to eternity.
I will become the earth,
where the grass grows.

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