There's a door with a handle,
An opening wide.
Brown, rusted hinges,
A faint light inside.
The resting, the weeping,
The long overdue.
The tightening of heartstrings,
The me and the you.
There's challenge and beating,
For bent screws now groan.
For sickness and sadness
Coarse edges to hone.
The voice in the throat,
The gulp and the squeeze.
Three fingers hold hardly,
Bloom's muse whispers please.
These slowly bent hinges,
Release in the still.
The rain that gave silence,
To red knuckle will.
These hands lay now gently,
Past ropes come untied.
The bird, feather's molting,
Deep waters subside.
And trees release failure,
From first summer's mourn.
These eyes that weep grateful,
For this, autumn born.
