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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Toadstool

Overnight a minimalist sound
came from the earth.
A white toadstool,
so ineptly named
for so white a loveliness.
The curve of a soft pearl,
sudden snow
that erupted from black humus.
A spore exploded into the air
like the beginning of a universe
from a bottomless center.

I go to the index of science
for magic,
the meditations of God,
the spiritual essences of stone,
the trembling of lips
saying words like love.
And there is no definition,
no chart of electrons,
no relativity of faces,
so far away,
so different,
so independent of death.

a toadstool
curved like a moon,
a thought expanding
from the darkness of the earth,
indescribably true,
like a tear being formed.

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