Aged by boot kicks,
hands puling and pushing,
raindrops rotting its strength,
the door still waits to welcome
to keep secrets, to say goodbye.
Rusty hinges sing their moaning chorus
as they strain under openings and closings.
People young and old make their assumption
the weathered wood will always
respond at their command.
A patina bridge between past and present,
it bears the weight of crumbling brick
and mortar tears.
A stoic entrance that awaits a future
dependent on reaching hands.
©Susie Clevenger 2012