I stand, my hand
gently waking the old wooden gate.
Before me, across the startled lawn
my little house looks at me
through the weeds, askance.
Alone it has lived for twenty years
growing rust of sorrow and fears.
Tears trickle inwards, searing the heart.
Then together they take a private trip
and eyes silently smart.
My feet work out a step
the gate warms its hinges.
Time, hiding under a shroud of leaves
and mourning the dead of spring
steps out to greet the present.
The door, oak, old and standing
never looked more alive.
Never before the answer came in sight.
yes, you did right.