A Gate We Might Enter

The greatest crisis contains a seed.

The seed is a door. Every day

the key clicks
and taps just above, just below the keyhole.

*

The door is invisible, the door is oak.
I stand with my back against it.

I knock, my knuckles numb they pass through
the grain, aching they retreat.

The backs of my hands brush against the door,
the memory of a kiss.

I press my cheeks against the cool slab.

The door is wet, my legs frozen fire.

On the other side lies a field, a yellow
living room, a single poppy, last night’s sweaty dream.

*

Every crisis emits seeds
As when a poppy unwraps in a windy field.

The seeds are gifts, openings into risk.

The seeds are doors. Every day
my hands push against the knotted wood.

From MORNING PRAYER (Sheep Meadow Press, 2005)