Certain of Doors.

It is the back side of the museum,
a place where the patrons never go.

There are no signs that led you here.
And actually, nothing to see
beyond some old stone steps with snow
that lead to a locked door.

Still. you are glad you bypassed the chains
at the front of the building to wander
around and down towards the river,
seeking…. well you do not really know
what you are seeking.
Something new?
Something forbidden?
Or a simple curiosity of what might be
hiding just out of sight?

So, the stairs with a smattering of snow.
A locked door. The only footprints
are your own.

You are content here. In the silence.
Down below, the river slides silently,
chunks of ice testifying
to the long cold spell,

In a bit, you will go back around.
Find an open door and go in.
That is the difference between now
and your history. You are certain
of doors now. Sure there is always one
to go in and find you warmth,
no longer threatened by the cold.

About this poem

For years I have written here, my therapy in a way. It still is, but now, looking at so many of the things I wrote so painfully about years ago, I can feel the scars, but they no longer cause pain day to day. Growth, I suppose. So the poem is about that.

Or it is about the stairs behind the Hyde Museum in Glens Falls, NY, where I took the picture after crossing the chains to keep me off the grass. Poetry is never about one thing.

Off to work with me.

Tom