listen and read
Weisspfennig House, Fredonia, North Dakota
You see how important a door can be,
its position, letting the known in,
keeping the unwanted out.
This one is a real soldier, black trim,
vintage 40s, employed to maintain quiet,
to swing on common sense alone.
No one has kicked this door around.
And after sixty years the screen
shimmers under sunlight, still
begging light into its skin. Light
obliges, stroking doorsill,
wooden, clean and varnished floor,
blue foot rug, too. And extends
a gentle hand toward kitchen.
A stiff little breeze wants to
come in, too. So do swallows
diving from eaves. The door struts
its belt of balusters, a waltz
of wooden, miniature pillars.
By midmorning I can see light has fallen
for the door and made herself a home.
from The Rhubarb King, Loonfeather Press
