The Door Home

And still, something is there, is present:
something in you sings, when the maple
covers the opposite wall and white window sills
when you return, foreign tastes still

lingering, and greens will spill and splash
in the evening red, and past the bank of tulips,
past the young potato and cabbage
you feel again that pasture, your own yard —

cross the threshold, throw yourself to safety,
as if a homeless beast were out to discover you,
knew you by name, knew everything
you can only guess at yet, daunted.

Inside, sturdy steps ascend to a door,
which the same familiar key still homes towards,
and a low-lit room lets you sit down, unfound,
your own plate on a palm’s ground.

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