Friday, December 16, 2016


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