The Door Between the Gardens


There was a time we came and went.
The door between the gardens stood open,
rusting gently on it's hinges,
waiting for the time of closing


Wrought iron twists and scrolls
embellished with morning glory
and dandelions and grass,
growing through the metal lace.

But all things come to an end;
every door is eventually shut.
On a stormy summer evening,
carelessly rushing back and forth,

the door slammed shut.
I would not mind so much
(we still can talk through the grille,
Still I can see you at the fountain)

but when the door was shut,
in my haste (I didn't want to go),
my sleeve was caught on the latch
and my right hand is on the other side.

 

 

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