The Light at the Door

You arrive late in the night, 
The lamp by the door stand sentry, 
bright, steadfast, still, 
covered with spider webs
and wind blown debris. 

You open the door
and the air is stale and dry, 
the smell of abandonment hovers
like death, a reminder
of how long you have wandered, 

how you have been missed
even by this inanimate place, 
how death is not caused by dying, 
but by loneliness, by being left too long
behind closed doors. 

And so you open them, 
every door and window, 
and let the evening breeze flow, 
a bit chilling perhaps, 
but gloriously alive.

About this poem

Yes that is the lamp at my back door. Last night I came home after a nearly week long road trip and yes, the house was stale and stuffy. It reminded me of my parents house now that my mother is gone and my dad has been moved to a nursing home. It is no longer alive. It reminded me of life without people who are dear to me. But there are always doors to open, windows to lift, and people to let into your life to freshen them up and bring back the life. 

Thank goodness. 

Tom