The Door

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