Guardian.....(Complete) Poem by elysabeth faslund

Part 1....


We knock daintily to be let within, shuffling, gazing
Past our shoes
To the walkway quietly journeyed, up the steps,
Old, splintered...
Wondering the replacement, wondering the newness
Of the wood. No, never cement, stone, brick...
Always wood.
Soon weathered, warm, not threatening with fresh, cold.

Hedges trimmed to a leaf, both sides of the covered
Doorway porch.
Nothing to stop wind, rain.
Guests must be quick inside on a drear afternoon,
Not laughing, arm-in-arm, but quick-tapping
The stone walkway to the door. For comfort.
This must be the place. Numbers are correct. Street name.

Again, the timid knock. Our gloves shiny, clean, buffering
Knuckles.
Oh, someone must be home! We heard they're always
Home...the boring things.
'I wouldn't be their servant, Harold.'
'Nor I, nor I. Shush! I thought there was a step. No, no,
Nothing.'
'I told them we were...why, we were invited! What if
No one's home, Harold. What if the long way was
For nothing? '

Part 2....

Crossroads. Choosing. Turning, or straight. Once no crossroads.
No choices. No time or place to stop.
Freedom.
Fields of Lavender past horizons. Lilac forests topping hills,
Stretching bright to the sky.
Stepping stones over rills, brooks...seeking the other side,
And, back. Again.
No crossroads.

Those who sought things, made crossroads.
And, in seeking, left their marks of passing.
Not knowing what they sought.
In not knowing, the seekers carved desperation into the
Earth.
Prints, signs of wandering with no direction.
Those who followed the prints, knifed them to roads, paths,
Crossed. Crossed again.

Crossed to Light. Crossed to Dark.
Choosing the Right. Deciding the Left.
Turning. Always looking back.
Choosing.
Unsure of the choice.
Travelling the walkways. Slicing steps into the
Earth.

The gardener knew the ways of Lavender. Lilac.
The gardener knew no paths.

Part 3....

'Think you to enter at this hour? ' The gardener, laminated in mist.
Too close.
Twined eyes, not breathing. Seeing, not seeing.
'We're invited guests...'
'Everyone is. You have something of Earth? Dirt, water, flower
Of the golden bough? '
Madness. Many the form, texture. Smile of teeth. Blankness of
A door.
No one beyond that door.
No one beyond.

'Harold, tell him we knocked. Harold? We've travelled too far...'
'What is 'far'? '
The gardener spread his arms. Pointed here, there, up, down.
Asylum's laughter. Strangled eyes. Screeching.
'Which way did you come? '
They looked back, unsure. Right? Left? No direction. Not now.
Balance broken. Paths gone.
'Did you pass the crossroad? '
'Several...is anyone...'
'There is only one crossroad leading here.'
Laughter in the air. Flowers in the mist.
Lavender. Lilacs.

Crossroad of madness. Driven beyond choices, haunted rooms
Behind eyes...
The gardener was many things...necessary, unwanted.
Final acceptance.
Final door open, only walk through. The first. The last. And out.
Finality.
Know that doors can choose to never open again. The
Chandelier shines as bright. The party as merry.
This end to matters.
What matters choice? Hesitant before. Always unsure after.
Paths, steps of choosing.
No finality.

'Did you expect the door to open? '
'Look, here is our invitation...'
'No matter that. All gone.'
Nothing in her pocket.
A tiredness. Perhaps acceptance. A dawning.
'Oh, Harold...' Futility. 'Your old mother...who'll...'
'It's a remarkable world. You cannot pass the door.
You can appeal.'
The gardener checked the hedges for growth, nodded. Laughed.
'That process is Eternity.'