The Doorway
There is the moment of the day
in early June, when yellow light
falls on the equisetum and the ground
breaks out so luminous, so green,
could winter ever fall atop
such beauty and lie so foreign,
so deep? I watch from my doorway
how the light moves off,grows pale
finally, the way a face falls
out of memory. Behind me,
through the door are all the things
I have, part of the world grown
used to me. And beyond at the twilight
woods, what will gather me
tomorrow. But now I let go
in the gentle, given night, unearned,
and settle in the door
(while the unmoving part of me
still turns to you to speak love
always). But soon we must be still.
For a rain begins to fall, so fine
that the woods fill up
with silver light
but make no sound.
——————————
Joseph A. Enzweiler
