Door

Door

This door is becoming art with parallels

of weather diverting at wood knots.

These knots are vicinities of texture—

their ingrained paint fast with lead base.

Intervals of dent highlight entry of nails,

now covert grip playing foil to a rusted latch.

Token brass offers a flit of light conjured

by the spit and polish of storm gust.

This door becoming art, is the weather’s Braille,

read by the fingertip halt and hurry of rain.

This door’s inner face conserves its craft,

its enamel cloistered from abstractive sun and water.

Behind this door’s climatic etch dwells

musty air and forsaken moments.

This door secures a room of phobic spiders,

their webs like crochet of an ancient aunt.

Behind this door becoming art, silence

threads needles and moves slipper quiet.

Silence sits at a hearth near tongue and groove,

whose key denies outside changes.

Silence sits listening for Bogong moths,

those fluttering chimney sweeps of chance.

Ken Stone