Doors embroidered with cobwebs
at the seams are the doors
most tempting to open.
Gossamer strands stretch
and just as a ballerina in plié
flows her arms downward ever so,
a perfect port de bras, they sink
to the bottom of their reach.
What neglected vestibule? What forgotten room?
Delinquent hallways, storied floorboards?
Find a niche, excavate secret paths
behind moveable bookshelves,
false walls.
Feast on discovery:
Who left this handmark,
this measurement,
this carving of a tree,
its reaching roots
grown into the cracks
of the foundation?
Who seared savory scents into the pink wallpaper
from the cold coils of this crooked stove-top?
What tomato-based sauce splashed this tile like
casually shed blood?
Dank piles of rotten leaves
to and from this earthbound door,
the walls composed of stardust
and the gravity of love
while the wanderers at the lock
ever seek to unbolt
and tread their own paths.
Someone has to clear the cobwebs,
someone has to open the door,
someone has to clean up this mess
and make their own way again.
Might as well be us.
Photo by Chris Barbalis on Unsplash
