a poem
I knock
and knock again
the door so smooth and ancient
it resists me out of
a quarter century
habit
I hammer my fists
into its deaf planks,
shout my love into
its hardened varnish,
whisper open, please
beg, cry, induce guilt
I consider drastic measures:
a battering ram, hatchet, ultimatums, but
drama will get me nowhere
I imagine you on the other side
mystified by the lock installed
long before we met.
I sit with my back to the door and think:
morning may dawn
I may no longer knock,
perhaps. I think:
if I am brave,
I may walk away.
Instead, for now,
I dance my joy
just outside the door
waiting for you to remember how
to open it from the inside,
and join me
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Thank you. Be well.
Mary