In childhood the door was brown
And strong.
It saw many children run outside
And inside
And outside again without ever
Remembering
To close it.
And then I was older and watched
For a boy.
I waited and peered out the grate
Until finally
He came, in his beat-up truck
I opened the door
With a smile.
When all of the family were coming
From near and far
My Mother and I painted it blue.
Welcoming, new
To celebrate the day that I changed my name
The door wore a smile
And stood open.
Now I own the door, and it's still blue.
My children, My Love
All enter through it, and I watch for them.
It is strong
It celebrates with all of us, As it opens
The door is mine
And it rarely closes.
3 comments:
Heartwarming poem, Carina. I really
enjoyed how the poem circles
back to the blue open door.
The door represents to me a slice
of heaven on earth.
I remember painting that door...and how many times I had to get up and close it. lol.
How you've mythologised that blue door. Lovely.
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