Thursday, August 2, 2012

About a Gate

Swing,
creak,
open reluctantly,
close unreliably,
dear wooden gate.
Shed your layers of paint,
let rust have its way with your springs,
tell long stories about years of treasured use
to your perfect plastic cousins:
of kids running through
and lovers walking out,
of wild fields entered and
vegetable gardens protected,
of roses blooming in manicured trim
and stray vines climbing your posts.
You have been the welcoming mat of homes
and the prosaic entrances of pastures.
You have hidden mansions and bungalows,
perched in decorative purpose among daylilies,
guarded raucous chickens and yipping dogs.
Stand tall, lean precariously,
sag on your hinges in age,
but never fail to watch
for the guest and the stranger
and the weary traveler
returning home.

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