By Jessica Goody
Doorways are a metaphor
for transience, transformation, opportunity.
The two-faced god Janus controlled the doorway
between past and future, a cosmic stage scrim.
Behind each wooden portal,
between brass digits and flowerpots,
lives occur. Auras of lamplight illuminate
domestic scenes like something in a play.
Curtains billow like sails against the windowpane.
Coats are heaped on pegs
and kicked-off shoes are scattered.
Umbrellas stand dripping, upended along the wall.
A cat stares from a window,
an all-knowing glow in its green eyes.
A door is a blind eye,
glassless and impenetrable.
A closed door is a haven, a cave
guarding the privacy of its occupant,
a friendly fortress, a retreat, a cocoon
of calming silence, encouraging contemplation.
Every house is a box filled with heartbeats,
footsteps, history, a potpourri of voices.
The old trees lining the street bear witness
to their gossip, their comings and goings.
As I pass, I consider the geometry of every door:
Narrow windowpanes, light glowing through stained glass,
the mouth-flap of the mail slot, the gleam of knob and hinge,
the relationships that shift and evolve with every entrance and exit.
It is human nature, when one encounters a box,
an eagerness to look inside and discover its secrets.
The most basic desire is the one to open the door,
to step, inside, secure in the knowledge of arriving home.
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