The Door

Poem By Mary Bastian

the precautionary past renders
a peep-hole to foresee circumstance-
rather than chance.

the eye of my love glared back
distorted with age (time an enemy)
on the threshold he lingered.

he would not enter,
safety made as a portal
without light-without a window.

he teetered on the verge of
his head and his heart-
his fear and his love.

irrational to stand in limbo
turned to try another door
knocked and entered.

found caught in all he questioned
and for the door left locked-
he found the key.

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