The Door

 

 

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Even as the door was breaking,

the wood remembered the tree.

Its weakened knots turned in on themselves

and splintered into me.

 

Even as the door was breaking,

Its branches vined a cage.

Its roots shot out in adrenaline veins

And brought me to my knees.

 

Even as my will was breaking

I begged to hear a song.

Its notes of chaos took my voice

And nailed me there unsung.

 

Even as the door was closing

I came to comfort the tree.

Its fragile leaves will patch up the holes

From which I’ve come to breathe.

 

© 2015, Ellen Rowland

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