Singer At The Gate Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

"The Singer at the Gate"


The latch is cold, an unhewn piece of iron
resting in the quiet between two breaths.
To ask is to strike the first, unpractised note
to risk the crack in a voice that only wants
to harmonize with the shadow on the other side.

It is the clumsy reaching of a hand
that fears it might disrupt the music of the house.
But to wait is to let the song turn inward,
a melody trapped like water under winter ice,
running deep and silent where no one else can drink.

So, the foot hovers, not locked in stone,
but poised on the soft edge of the welcome.

The air is thick with the scent of unlit candles
and the terrible, beautiful choice of the first word:
to break the stillness with an earnest plea,
or to trust that listening ears already know their step.






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