THE DOOR Poem by Adam Wyeth
THE DOOR
I sit in the garden
taking the late sun
as it sinks and slides
between the side
of the house
and the hawthorn.
Trailing the bench
across the lawn
to catch a final
finger of warmth,
a golden stretch
comes to rest
on a patch
of grass at my feet —
like a door.
A door in which
I wait for your
shadow to darken;
the door, which is
always left open.
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2/1/2026 6:19:37 AM # 1.0.0
