Saturday, April 16, 2011

Month of Poetry, Day 16


She knocks,
swings the white
door closed behind
her, surprised at
its lightness, and
stands before
her past.

She says words
she has rehearsed
all day, only they
come out better
than she planned.
So do the responses.

Tears prick the
corners of her
eyes, the trailing
edge of a flood,
and she is engulfed
in a warm woolen
embrace that
steadies, reassures
her that what she
once did matters,
that, perhaps, she
matters too.

She exits through
the thin white
door, walks away
on unsteady legs
toward the future.

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