Friday, May 28, 2010

Passing Through

In childhood the door was brown
And strong.
It saw many children run outside
And inside
And outside again without ever
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.


Cynthia said...

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.

Lilibeth said...

I remember painting that door...and how many times I had to get up and close it. lol.

irene said...

How you've mythologised that blue door. Lovely.