The Old Wooden Gate

The old wooden gate–outside my window–looks ready to be opened

It leans forward, hoping the wind pushes it far enough to swing out

Or, even better, that maybe someone will brush up against it

It longs for that slight, warm touch of hand to handle

The quick grasp–and lift of the latch–are all the gate wants

It must only dream of sanding and primer

Of lacquer and stain and constant use

I watch as the gate sits on undisciplined hinges

That long ago grew lazy and relaxed

The gate looks far older than it is, for Time has dressed it

In a web of cracks and taken bites from its domed top

Just out of sheer pity I go outside and walk over

The gate rattles–as I draw near–as if to say

“Do hurry and go through! No, don’t hurry… take your time.”

I admire this polite form of desperation and comply

The hinges squeal out reprimands at once

Ignoring them I hold the gate open at arm’s length

Allowing it to look up and down the lane

It revels in the breeze, scents and movement

As I release the gate, it settles back into place content

Moving slowly as an ascending queen

The sigh isn’t audible, but I feel it as I depart

Pen in Hand

L. R. Styles is an Author with Belator Books

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