‘Doors and Windows’ (Poetry)

DOORS AND WINDOWS

Oh, windows are well enough,

shining their golden welcome in the night, wide-eyed on

mornings of blue days, 

or playing ‘I Spy’ with blinds

that wink at you

giving only a hint, a glimpse of things without, within.

But doors–ah doors–now that’s another thing.

Doors are able to think for themselves.

They slam suddenly short on storms,

“Mind your own business,” says doors, 

“and take your rain outside.

This is our house.”

But on summer nights

they creak themselves gently ajar

so that winds may wander softly

through rooms,

along verandahs,

down corridors,

tweaking the sheets of the sleeping,

smoothing the children’s tumbled hair,

waking the wondering cat,

then tip-toeing off again.

Windows are half-hearted things,

You can’t come and go through windows.

(Unless you’re a thief, or you’ve foolishly locked yourself out.)

But doors, standing four-square on thresholds,

are always ready to swing

as wide as open arms, 

ready for hugging

“Come in. Come in. Come in.”