Doors

They open.
They close.
They open again
never to quite the same scene,
often to mysteries
and murders, or perhaps
to heaven in the most unexpected places,
hope where they should be none,
the soft word of a perfect stranger,
or the rumbling of the road
under the wheels of your ancient truck.

They open.
They close.
They open again,
and you hold your breath,
no longer sure if you are anticipating
or fearing the other side, aware
anything may be there
waiting for you,
in passion or prayer or
anger or indifference, unsure whether
it is exit or entrance,
Unsure whether it is safer
to turn the doorknob, or the lock.

They open.
They close.
They open again.

About this poem

So many changes in life right now. It’s breathtaking.

The picture is of a doorknob my son found in an antique shop we visited a couple of weeks ago. I am blessed with two (out of two) kids that like antique shops and antiques and he wanted me to take a picture of this one so my daughter could see it too.

Tom