The Squeaking of Hinges
It is cloudy with a spit of unexpected rain
as you make your way to the barn,
unhooking the latch pulling the door. Open.
It creaks. The hinges are old and iron,
They rust without care, and need to be used
to stay limber. You have been gone a time
and they are stiff with neglect.
Still, they open. And as the week of your presence
falls back into the routine of letting animals in and out,
the hinges will fall back into their comfortable habits.
They will grow quiet as you oil them and use them,
until you no longer notice them in the morning
and nothing is left but you
and the wildstock.
About this poem
I have been away a few days. I used to be terrified when I had been away from my writing for a while, even for just a few days. Terrified that like an unwatered plant, my ability to write would dry up and die. There is a long story behind that that I will leave for another time.
I know better now. Rusty is not dead. Far from it. At times, it brings new color.