Doors Poem by Val Morehouse

Rectangles stark with shadow held tight
against life’s revelation,
that open and close on moments,
a reunion in every slam,

Experience framed in each clicked lock.
Collector of catalogs, keys, Watchtowers, salesmen…
spider’s lace, peep holes, fanciful knockers, wreathes,
catcher of skirts and bare feet, meow and bark,

Doors, those coffin lids through which we
seek life’s wilderness, that promise of meadows,
walking into those sweet shades of possibility,
are headstones

Where wind runs sharp fingernails into the cracks
Ticking seconds off on life’s weather clock, and
chiming with the sharp peck of temptation like
birdsong against the keyhole.