A doorway, no door.
On the other side, light
and green, even flowers.
If I step through
what do I leave behind?
Where do I go
if I step through?
What if it is so pleasant
on the other side
I can't walk back through?
Why would I go back
to Not Writing?
Because I know it.
Dark, its corners,
small warmth.
A roof, walls, no windows.
The warm comfort
of a small space.
Shelter.
The threshold calls:
the sun, the green,
the other side invites.
I hold my breath.
My own fear keeps me here.
I look around
the edge of the threshold.
Sun bathes my calf.
My arm now into the light.
Inertia is heavy.
The light moves up
to my shoulder.
A dappled gray mare
grazes. Turning to look at me,
green grass hangs from her lips.
She shakes her head at me.
I move toward her to ride.
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1 comment:
I like the imagery. So beyond your threshold is a pasture? Interesting.
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