Doors that are not quite closed
have such promise. All those shadows
crowded just behind, muffled
under the inching day
or when light whispers up
another evening. Waiting again
to softly douse a carpet,
teach floorboards how to sleep.
Doors not quite closed
might have salvation in store –
the best bits of days long gone
ready to float through the gap
like letter-scraps escaped from
a brazier, corners of love,
convictions in summer blue,
unsouring the air of the house.
Maybe one time a door
might swing a touch more open
so you find a path with roll-away verges
hosting the echo of birds just flown –
asking only that you set foot
with the pulse you’d embed
in any hour, with stilled gaze,
quieted breath…at last, child wonder.
