There is a door at the front of the house
No one is knocking
The hinges old and rusty
With wood dark and cold
There is a door at the front of the house
I miss her very much
The peephole dingy and used
With door knob loose and old
There is a door at the front of the house
No one is knocking
Vines twisted caressing skin
With bronze metal glinting and pale
There is a door at the front of the house
I miss her very much
The smell of maple hushes
With shaking knob large and hurried
There is a door at the front of the house
The silence false and weary
With breathing harsh and heavy
There is a door at the front of the house
In evening rays the portal falls
To unfavored winds
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoesíaOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
