March of the Flowers

The Front Door

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