Our doors were not made of affectatious
Whims, frostless fires or artic mist.
Days twisted the same parochial dance.
Ignorance bore no remorse, but for years.
From my door the shadeless spectre that
traces the shadows are still visible,
though for an instant; then the
sibilant silence whispers on.
Today my door will open to the
yesterdays of all tomorrows.
Tomorrow my door will open today.
Our doors will open again.
Châz
Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.