Hung in hesitation’s poise,
this iron gate denies no friend,
creaks and clangs in phrase of welcome
whenever one walks in.
Here amidst the cold stone wall,
now overgrown in moss and vine,
hangs this aging garden gate,
held to dress this walk, quite fine.
Beneath the years of layers black
in sacred paint applied in trust,
cracks the skin of age and wear
exposing blisters filled with rust.
The slapping latch is worn quite thin.
Her angles softly sagging.
The spring to bring her closed again
strains beneath her weight, just lagging.
Yet through this temporal portal streams
the futures past in longing dreams.
Through her kindest stance has come
the sweetest loves, the greatest sums
of all a man desires…
…angels swept in summer dress…
…devils danced in fire…
Through her constant threshold drifted
words of war, hopes of peace,
worries of life’s certain failings,
prayers for a sweet release.
Now as I, with aging hand,
caress her subtle arabesque,
I quietly gather dreams recalled,
some living, most at rest.
Oh dear friend, my fortunes flowed
across your gentle grace,
calmly calling to this path
that since has aged this place.
Once more I pull her toward me,
my life resounds her echoed call
that soon our futures beckon
toward the fade, toward the fall.
God bless you little gate,
my colored life’s been marked in time
by gracious clangs and creaking,
so set, by you, to living’s rhyme.